


Good Times, Bad Times

by DasMervin, MrsHyde (DasMervin)



Series: The Writing on the Wall [18]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Apologies, Awesome Dean, Awkward Castiel, Bad Sex, Belligerant Dean, Bitchy Dean, Blow Jobs, Bobby is a Troll, Bobby is an awesome dad, Bobby is still awesome, Bobby is the biggest troll ever, Bobby puts up with so much crap, Bobby's still got it, Canon-Typical Violence, Cas is a dork, Cas is afraid of boobies, Cas is kinda dumb though, Cas is passive aggressive, Cockblocking Cas, Coitus Interruptus, Comfort Food, Comfort Sex, Confused Dean, Creeper Castiel, Cuddling, Cute, Cute Castiel, Cute Dean, Dean Seriously Tries, Dean doesn't hide his sappiness very well, Dean is a damned pervert, Dean is a sap, Dean is an asshole, Dean learns his lesson, Depression, Destiel - Freeform, Disappointment, Domestic Castiel, Dry Humping, Embarrassment, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotions, Endverse issues, F/M, Family Feels, Fan Soundtracks, Flashbacks, Flirting, Frantic Sex, Frottage, Gen, Groin Attack, Guilty Castiel, Hand Jobs, Headcanon, Heavy Angst, Hesitant Sex, Human Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, Hypochondriac Cas, Internalized Homophobia, Kissing, Lie back and think of England, Lube, M/M, Masturbation, Matchmaker Cas, Medical issues, Medication, Misunderstandings, Nervous Castiel, Nightmares, Nudity, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Overheard Sex, PTSD, Pain, Post-Coital Cuddling, Practicing Sex, Premature Ejaculation, Public Nudity, Reaction to Drugs, Revenge Sex, Sam/OFC - Freeform, Season Seven that Wasn't, Sexual Fantasy, Sexually Explicit Language, Slash, Slow Burn, Stalking, Stoned Castiel, Wet Dream, Wrong Name in Bed, alternate POV, bros, but he has the right to be, date, for a change, glacial build, lost erection, objectification of women, porn stash, talking it out, world building
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-06
Updated: 2013-11-20
Packaged: 2017-12-25 18:31:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 51
Words: 84,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/956334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DasMervin/pseuds/DasMervin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/DasMervin/pseuds/MrsHyde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collections of drabbles, asides, outtakes, and alternate POVs from our "Writing on the Wall" verse.  This is just a catch-all for all those little fics that don't fit into the main narrative, fics where we see what Cas is doing when Dean isn't around, or fics that otherwise show what goes on outside of Dean's admittedly limited worldview.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Total Recall

_Set during the course of “Fever Dreams”_

Bobby’d seen a lot of strange things in his time. It sort of came with the job, really. When you hunted monsters and made a living out of facing the strange, you got used to it and learned to deal with it. That was monsters, though—but given that he’d had a hand in raisin’ Sam and Dean Winchester, he’d seen his share of strange and uncomfortable stuff just from normal people, too. However, seein’ Cas just sitting in a chair, his eyes wide, blank, and glassy as tears streamed down his face and he stared at absolutely _nothing_ was pretty high up there on his list of The Really Freakin’ Weird.

For a second, all Bobby could do was stare at him; he’d been about to demand why he didn’t hear water running in the sink, because Cas was supposed to be doing the dishes. But those words just kind of dried up when he saw him there at the kitchen table, doing—whatever that was.

“Cas?” he said warily.

Cas gave absolutely no indication that he’d even heard him. Starting to get a little alarmed now, he went over to him, snapping his fingers a few times near his face. “Hey! Cas— _Cas!_ ” Bobby finally just reached out and grabbed his arm, shaking him a little.

Cas about jumped a mile, blinking rapidly and looking around wildly until he finally spotted Bobby next to him. “Oh—oh, hello, Bobby,” he managed, his voice thick, and Bobby saw his brows pull together when he reached up and ran his fingers through the tears on his cheeks. He pulled his hand back and stared at the wetness there, looking confused.

No way Bobby was gonna let this one slide as one of Cas’s usual weirdnesses, like when he caught him just watching a spider trundle across his kitchen cabinet instead of killing it. “Cas, what the hell was wrong with you?” he demanded. “What were you doin’? Are you okay?”

Cas was still staring at his hand. “I—I’m all right,” he replied. He rubbed his fingertips together. “I…didn’t know I was…crying.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Bobby said impatiently. “ _Why?_ How do you not know you’re cryin’? Seriously, what were you _doing_?”

Cas obviously didn’t want to talk, but if this was gonna be a regular thing, he’d _better_ tell him what it was. But Bobby didn’t need to ask him again, as Cas shifted uncomfortably and then said, “I was…remembering.”

Bobby waited for a second or two before prompting him again. “What, just _remembering_? Just having a trip down Memory Lane? I’ve daydreamed before and been a little out of it while I was doin’ it, but you didn’t even know I friggin’ _existed_ , boy—and I’ve never just sat there bawlin’ before without knowin’ it. Just how bad _is_ your nostalgia?”

“It’s not nostalgia, Bobby, it’s…” Cas trailed off, licking his lips and wiping at his face with his hand. “I’ve seen human memories before, but I’m…mine aren’t like that. I’m…” His eyes shut for a moment. “I’m not truly human; I’m simply…powerless. But when I… _remember_ , and think about the—before, I still remember like an angel…remember everything in perfect detail. It’s…” He looked away. “It’s a little like when I have dreams, except I know it’s just a memory, but it’s still very real, and I…I feel things, now, too, even when I didn’t then as an angel…I wasn’t thinking about how I was reacting here, now. I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“No, wait a second,” Bobby said, sitting down next to him and trying to wrap his brain around this nonsense. “When you sit down and—and just _remember_ things, and think about shit that happened in the past, you remember—everything? Like, every single detail, and—is it it’s like you’re really there or something?”

Cas blinked slowly at him. “I…suppose.”

Bobby sighed. Great—he didn’t think your average anti-depressants could handle something like _that_. “Then why don’t you try rememberin’ somethin’ _happier_?” he asked.

“I…can’t control my memory like I used to,” Cas said uncomfortably. “Things I don’t want to think about…I can’t help but think about them because everything reminds me of them.”

“Well, here, I’ll just give you a prompt. Why don’t you—” Bobby raised his eyes skyward, unable to believe what he was about to do. “How about you think about Dean? Here, I mean, with you, when you—made up, after—after everything. Is that—a happy memory?”

Cas nodded. “It is.”

“Well, think about that. Just remember that for a while, it’ll help…keep the bad shit away for a bit. And if the bad shit shows up, just try and…think about Dean. In a good way,” Bobby ground out, unable to believe that he’d just told Cas to sit around and daydream about mackin’ on _Dean_. He supposed that’s what made him add, “But not too much. Try not to do that memory thing at all if you can help it. It’s not healthy for you, obviously.”

“I’ll try,” Cas said quietly, still morose and miserable and sniffling from whatever he’d just been doin’, and Bobby sighed and went over to the sink to start on the dishes himself.

“Get out the milk and cookies, would ya?” he suddenly said after a while of doing the dishes in silence.

Cas rose obediently, then shuffled over to the cabinet and pulled out the brand new package of snickerdoodles Bobby’d bought yesterday. Bobby finished drying two glasses by the time Cas pulled the milk out of the fridge. “C’mere and fill these up,” he ordered gruffly, and Cas did so, filling each glass to the brim with milk—whole milk, because Dean always bitched when he came in and discovered it was 2% or skim. Bobby finished the last of the dishes while Cas put the milk away and went to sit down, and then, after Bobby dried his hands, he stumped over and sat down across the table from him, grabbing the package of cookies and opening it up.

“Ever had a snickerdoodle?” he asked.

“No.”

“Well, I hope you like cinnamon,” Bobby sighed, setting two down on a napkin and then, after a moment’s hesitation, pulled out a third and pushed the stack towards Cas. He grabbed two for himself before rolling up the plastic again.

Cas took a bite, chewing glumly for a few seconds, and then Bobby watched, amused, as he blinked a little, staring down at his cookie—and then promptly _inhaled_ the thing before moving onto the next.

Bobby snorted, taking a bite of his own. “Like that?” he asked wryly.

Cas nodded from behind a mouthful of cookie, and Bobby couldn’t help a small chuckle. “Remind me to buy a new package tomorrow.”


	2. Disciplinary Action

_Set between “Fever Dreams” and “Just What I Needed”_

See, Bobby hadn’t wanted to leave Cas home alone.

Leaving him there unattended just hadn’t seemed like a good idea. It didn’t matter that he was hidden from anyone lookin’ for him—if something just stumbled _onto_ the place…

Sam had said it’d be fine, because they (they being Sam and Bobby because Dean still wasn’t talking to Cas) had drilled it into Cas’s head that he was not to _ever_ open the door. In fact, if he heard a knock on the door or heard the doorbell ring, he was to drop whatever he was doing and go upstairs immediately and stay up there until they told him it was okay to come out. He knew he was in hiding, and it seemed like it’d be fine. Still, Bobby hadn’t been totally cool with leaving Cas all by himself while they went out on a shopping trip. But Sam had wanted to get out of the house, Bobby admittedly wanted some company for all the groceries because carryin’ all that stuff by himself was a pain these days, and Dean had been off by himself again, something that looked like it was gonna become a regular occurrence, considering he’d now been doin’ it for a full month. So he and Sam had left Cas at home, giving him orders to not open the doors, keep the windows closed, and stay inside and do his chores.

So, Bobby supposed, it was partially his own damn fault when he and Sam pulled up into the garage and there was a happy little waterfall spilling down the steps from under the backdoor of his house.

“ _Balls!_ ” Bobby snarled, kicking open his door and slamming it shut as Sam scrambled out of the other side. Bobby was storming toward the door when he noticed something he hadn’t before—yeah, he’d seen the Impala when they’d pulled up, but he’d _not_ seen Dean sleepin’ in it, his mouth hanging open, the water running merrily out the door right friggin’ in front of him.

Storming over to the car, he raised his fist and delivered a loud thump to the roof of the car. Dean immediately started flailing, his hand making contact with the horn, which of course blared loudly and made Sam jump, too.

“You friggin’ _dumbass_!” Bobby hollered, pointing to his steps, and then, without waiting for Dean to even figure out what had just happened, charged his house, yanking his keys out of his pocket, unlocking the door, and bursting inside.

It wasn’t hard to find the source—right there in the kitchen, water spewing out from under the sink like it was comin’ out of a fire hydrant, and as he bolted towards it Cas suddenly appeared, drenched and panic-stricken. “Bobby! I don’t know—”

“Get out of my way, you dumb shit!” Bobby snarled, diving under the sink and getting a face-full of water for his troubles. He turned away, choking a spluttering and getting completely soaked as he groped around for the goddamn valve— _finally_ his fingers found it and he turned it, his hand slipping twice before the water finally shut off, and the loud sound of spraying water died down and he could only hear the _drip drip drip_ of water on the floor.

Slowly and deliberately, he heaved himself back out from under the sink, staggering back to his feet and glaring blackly at Cas, who appeared to be trying to will himself back into angelicness just so he could vanish from the room and as far away from Bobby as possible.

“It’s the end of the world, Cas,” Bobby growled. “Explain this. _Now._ ”

If Bobby weren’t so pissed off right now, he might’ve actually felt sorry for Cas, what with how completely _pathetic_ he looked right now. “I—the sink.” And he just stopped there, as if _that_ explained everything.

“The sink _what_?” Bobby demanded, reaching up and yanking off his soaked cap, shaking it furiously.

“It—it was clogged.”

Bobby halted his shaking, staring at him. “It was _clogged_. So you—you friggin’ _unscrewed my pipes_ to unclog it. Even though you _know_ what a _plunger_ is.”

“It…wasn’t working,” Cas said meekly.

All Bobby could do was seethe in silence for a few seconds, and then he slapped his sopping hat back on his head, beyond caring how incredibly stupid it undoubtedly looked. “Cas,” he ground out slowly and menacingly. “You’re gonna go out into the garage. You’re gonna find a shovel—a _heavy one_. You’re gonna go out into the backyard and find yourself a nice patch of ground. And then you’re gonna start diggin’ a hole.”

Cas blinked soggily at him. “Why?” he asked, sounding nervous and morose at the same time.

“Because I _said_ so,” Bobby growled.

“All right,” Cas answered pitifully, and began sloshing through the water on the floor. When he got about to where Sam was standing and watching the spectacle in silence (which was smart of him, if he knew what was good for him), he turned and faced Bobby again. “When do I stop?”

“ _When I tell you to._ Now _get your ass out there_ and _start digging._ ”

Bobby was not moved by his pathetic sheep’s eyes as Cas shuffled out the door, closing it behind him as he did.

Sam let out a breath he’d apparently been holding. “Wow—uh…sorry about this.”

“I’ll bet you are,” Bobby said. “Was your idea in the first place to leave him here.”

“Come on—I didn’t know he’d do _that_ ,” Sam said defensively.

“No, but you do know he’s a friggin’ _moron_ ,” Bobby retorted.

Sam glanced out the window, and then tentatively said, “Uh, well, since he is, he didn’t mean to do this, not like the time Dean and I put a cherry bomb in your toilet…does he really have to get the old hole punishment for it?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Bobby snarled, and Sam had the good sense to leave it at that.

Bobby turned when he heard the back door open again, and seeing Dean rushing inside to get away from Cas did not improve his mood. He stopped in shock when he saw all the water. “What the _hell_ —” Dean started.

“Oh, _shut up_ , Dean,” Bobby barked. “This is your fault as much as it was Cas’s!”

“What?!” Dean demanded. “It is _so not_! I didn’t—”

“Yeah, that’s right, _you didn’t_ , ya moron—you couldn’t be assed to go inside, and if you’d just done that, this never would’ve happened! And then you just _sit there_ while water’s running down the steps—what, were you enjoyin’ the white noise?!” Bobby sneered.

“I didn’t know he’d done this!” Dean protested angrily.

“Yeah, _obviously_ —now shut up and get some brooms and mops—you two are helpin’ me clean this up.”

Dean looked mutinous, but was smart for once in his life and just went back out into the garage to get the heavy work brooms Bobby had stored out there. Bobby trudged to the kitchen closet to get the well-worn mop while Sam made his way to the living room. “I’ll go get towels for the living room,” he said.

“Yeah, fine,” Bobby grumbled, for once in his life glad that his kitchen floor was sunken and old like it was, ‘cause at least that kept a good deal of it out of his living room. Still had gotten wet, though.

As he moved to go open the door and start pushing water out, he saw Cas starting his hole in the shade of a tree, safely hidden from view of the highway. Bobby spared him one more glare before getting to work as well.

_Idjit._


	3. Sugar and Spice

_Set between “Fever Dreams” and “Just What I Needed”_

Bobby paused mid-stride on his way to the cupboard and did a double-take back at Cas, where he was standing by the counter and munching away.

“What the hell is that?” he demanded, squinting at the brownish powder in the bowl in his hands.

“Cinnamon and sugar,” Cas answered matter-of-factly, his voice muffled as he shoveled in another spoonful.

Bobby’s mouth dropped open in outrage before he shut it. He took a menacing step closer to Cas and snapped his fingers. “You give me that,” he growled. Cas blinked at him, and then haltingly held the bowl out to him; Bobby snatched it away. “Don’t do that again, goddammit—what the hell were you thinkin’, boy? Eatin’ all my snickerdoodles in one day is one thing, but that’s just wrong,” he grumbled, tossing the contents in the trashcan. When he turned to slam the bowl in the sink, he saw the little plastic bottle of cinnamon on the counter. It was impossible to miss how the damn thing was already half-empty. Shit—he’d bought it just a few days ago, too!

At least now he knew why his old bottle had vanished.

He looked up at Cas with a glare just in time to see him drop his head in a pathetic slump. “I’ll go get the shovel,” he said sadly, and turned to go out the back.

“What—dammit, get back here!” Bobby snarled. “You don’t have to dig a hole for that, you friggin’ dipshit!”

Cas looked up at him with soulful eyes, and Bobby sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Come here,” he grunted, opening his cabinet to find the bread. “Lemme show you how to make cinnamon toast. But you don’t get more’n four slices a day, and no more’n two at a sitting, you hear me?” he said, rounding on him and pointing a finger in his face.

“Yes, Bobby,” Cas answered immediately. And then, after a moment, very quietly added, “Thank you.”

Bobby just snorted. “Idjit,” he muttered under his breath.


	4. Fig Leaves

_Set between “Just What I Needed” and “I Want to Know What Love Is”_

“Hey, Cas!” Bobby called up the stairs. “Come on down here, boy—we’ve got work to do!”

He heard the door open upstairs, and then the sound of footsteps. “What is it, Bobby?” Cas asked as he came down.

“Willard has a new case, needs us to research some funny deaths—oh, _Jesus_ , Cas!”

Cas blinked, looking startled by Bobby’s sudden yell, but otherwise completely oblivious to the fact that he was standing in the middle of Bobby’s library without a stitch on.

“What in the hell are you _doin’_?!” Bobby bellowed. “You get upstairs and put on your damn _clothes_ , you moron!”

Oh, now he got it, and looked down at his skinny naked self and back up. “But, Bobby, it’s more comfortable this way,” he said, nonplussed.

“More— _dammit_ , Cas, you can’t just wander around with no friggin’ clothes!” Bobby shouted, looking sideways so that he didn’t have to see any more of Cas than he had to.

Cas was starting to look morose (and slightly petulant, a recent development that Bobby was not about to put up with), so he forced his voice down. “Cas,” he growled, “you’re human now, and humans wear clothes.” In a flash of insight, he added, “We ate that damn apple, remember?” and wonder of wonders, Cas’s face lit up in understanding. “So, fine, you don’t like clothes—you don’t have to wear them when you’re upstairs by yourself, but any time you come down here, you put ‘em on, got it?”

Cas nodded. “Yes, Bobby,” he said, and then he turned to go back up, treating Bobby to the sight of his scrawny white ass as he started up the stairs.

Bobby rubbed his head with the tips of his fingers; well, he’d be seein’ _that_ image in his nightmares tonight.

* * *

“Cas!” Bobby hollered up the stairs as he hung up the phone. “Wake up, boy, Sam and Dean just called! There’s some kind of spectral animal down in Alabama killin’ people!” He banged on the supporting wall that he knew went all the way up to Cas’s room. “Get down here!” he yelled up through the vent return. Cas slept like the dead, but Bobby had found his ways to get him movin’, and he needed to this morning. Bobby had slowly begun to realize that he was now playing landlord to a walking monster wiki, what with Cas just sittin’ around watching the world go ‘round since the very first monsters started cropping up. Just one more way for him to earn his keep, Bobby figured, so he could stop loungin’ up there eating bonbons and get down here and help him figure out what it the boys were on to.

Bobby didn’t have to wait long; the first few times Cas had just gone back to sleep when Bobby had called him had resulted in Bobby coming up there and either rolling him right out onto the floor or just pouring water on him, so he’d learned to get up in a hurry. He came shuffling down the stairs in an old T-shirt and a pair of baggy shorts, all bleary-eyed and yawning, his hair standing up on the back of his head, and—

Bobby closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose. “Cas,” he said evenly, not opening his eyes, “what’s wrong with this picture?”

He chanced a look at Cas, keeping his eyes firmly on his face. Cas was only half-awake and just blinked confusedly. “Cas,” Bobby tried again, “did you miss somethin’ this morning?”

And he gestured downward, and Cas looked blankly down—at where a big fat hard-on was clearly tenting the front of his shorts. He looked back up, rasped his tongue over his dry lips, and then hesitantly said, “No, I didn’t miss it…I was waiting for it to go down so I can urinate.”

Bobby slapped his hand to his forehead. “ _Cas_ ,” he growled, “why didn’t you wait for it to go down _upstairs_?! Nobody wants to see that—you don’t go wanderin’ around like that in public!”

“But I’m not in public; I’m here,” Cas just said plaintively.

If he said one more word, Bobby was gonna strangle him, that was all there was to it. “ _I_ don’t want to see it, either, you dumb shit!” he snarled. “You stay in your _room_ when you’re like that, understand?!”

Cas nodded, looking pitiful. “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. May I go urinate, please, and then I’ll make breakfast?” he said, obviously trying to be conciliatory.

Bobby almost told him to just get his ass upstairs, when he reflexively looked down and oh, great, saw that sure enough, Cas was already wilted after getting yelled at.

Bobby made himself not yell some _more_ , and instead just pinched the bridge of his nose and grunted, “Fine, Cas—go use the head, and then you can make breakfast.”

“Thank you,” he said, and then shuffled off towards the bathroom.

Bobby sighed; and here he’d thought that it couldn’t get any worse than seein’ Cas naked.

* * *

“Cas!” Bobby yelled up the stairs. He’d slept late this morning and so Cas had gotten to, too, but now Bobby was up and he was hungry, so Cas could just get up now and make breakfast—maybe he’d teach him how to make pancakes today. “Get on up, boy, and let’s eat!”

“Just a moment, Bobby!” Cas called back. “I have an erection; I’ll be down as soon as it’s gone.”

Bobby closed his eyes and leaned his head tiredly in his hands. Oh, well—he should look on the bright side: at least he didn’t actually have to _see_ Cas’s dick this time.


	5. To the Rescue

_Set between “Just What I Needed” and “I Want to Know What Love Is”_

Given the nature of his day job, Bobby didn’t think it was either morbid or inappropriate to have given quite a bit of thought as to how he might one day depart this world and head onto the next.

Since he didn’t have any intentions of retiring, he knew that one day, some monster or other was gonna get the better of him. The day he died, he figured, would be the day he was officially too old for this job simply because he couldn’t keep up with the beasts anymore. That’s usually how it worked. ‘Course, that was the secret, perverse dream of every hunter—to go out fighting, swinging, kicking, punching, and biting and hopefully taking a few of whatever he was fightin’ with him. So Bobby’d been pragmatic and thought of a few other ways—car wreck could always happen. Weapons malfunction, have his gun backfire on him and blow his own head off instead of whatever he was aiming at. Hell, he could fall down the stairs—he knew it was a possibility. Wasn’t like he was a nimble-footed sprite or somethin’. He hadn’t dwelt on it or anything, but he did sometimes wonder just what Death had written in that book of his for what was gonna eventually take ol’ Bobby Singer out for good.

‘Course, he’d _never_ thought that he’d go out like _this_ , pinned under a damn truck because he’d accidentally knocked the jack out from under it like a complete dumbass.

 _Dammit!_ He still wasn’t sure how he’d kicked that jack, but kicked it had been and the truck had crashed right down on top of him. He’d blistered the air with curses because _shit_ , that had _hurt_ , but on the heels of that had come the realization that a damn _truck_ had just fallen on him—and he was pinned.

He was already having to work to keep himself calm because of the weight on his chest—he couldn’t get a full breath because of the pressure, and no amount of wiggling around was getting him anywhere. He was stuck, his legs sticking out from under this friggin’ thing, one of them pinned down and throbbing horribly. He didn’t _think_ anything was broken but— _dammit_ , this hurt! And Sam and Dean were gone, Cas was holed up inside and couldn’t hear the few hoarse shouts he’d managed, and any neighbors were at least a mile away…

Great. Just to cap it all off, oil was starting to leak all over him. _Balls!_

He was _so_ not goin’ out this way. He’d bounced back after bein’ shot by a bunch of psycho cultists and havin’ his neck snapped by the Devil himself—he would have himself an adrenaline rush if he had to and just lift it off of him like _Superman_ if he had to, but the hell he was gonna die under a goddamn truck! That was not—

“Bobby?!”

_Praise whatever deities are listenin’…_

It was Cas. Bobby could hear the rapid crunching of his feet on the gravel. “Cas!” he managed to rasp. “Help me! Get th’ jack—”

“Bobby, are you all right?! What happened—”

“Just get th’ _jack_ , you idjit!” Bobby wiggled his free foot to get Cas’s attention, careful to not kick the _other_ jack and then _really_ fuck himself over.

Finally Cas’s feet came into view, his skinny legs bright white in the sun, and those stupid lime-green flip-flops Bobby’d bought for him were the most welcome sight he’d ever seen. But then they vanished again as he scrambled to the front of the truck, and he heard clattering as Cas fumbled with the jack. “Bobby, what do I do?!”

“Turn the screw ‘til—‘til it goes down—squeezes together. Counter-clockwise—th’ left!”

For some reason, while he waited for Cas to fiddle around with the jack and get it working, everything started hurting worse—that wasn’t fair. Now that his rescue was here, things were supposed to get better, not worse. He concentrated on staying calm—he wasn’t gonna panic now and _really_ hurt himself with Cas right here. So he waited, just singing “Free Man in Paris” in his head and keeping time with his shallow breaths while the sound of clinking metal both comforted him and made it worse.

 _Finally_ Cas spoke again. “Okay—it’s down, now what do I do?”

Bobby tried to take a bigger breath—too deep, and he wound up wincing—and then just breathily replied, “Big end on th’ ground, standin’ up—stick it under the edge—in the slot. Then turn th’ screw th’ other way. _Fast!_ ”

There was more scraping and crunching as Cas frantically moved around on the gravel and scrabbled around with the jack, but then he heard more metallic scrapes and tinkering, which meant the jack was in motion. He just counting his breaths, keeping them slow and even, his eyes firmly shut because _no panicking_. That body’d better just stay calm, dammit.

When he finally felt the pressure beginning to ease up, he almost laughed in relief—but knew better than to actually do it. Slowly but surely the truck lifted, and he kept himself still, refusing to try and start wiggling out before he had enough room; wouldn’t do to tear himself up worse than he already was.

“Can you get out now?!” Cas demanded, and Bobby wryly thought that that was why he didn’t need to panic, because Cas was doing it all for him.

“Yeah—I think so.” Slowly, he pushed himself to the side first, looking down to make sure he didn’t kick the other jack and make _another_ disaster, and then slowly started easing himself out from under the truck feet-first, getting gravel up his shirt and down his pants as he went but way beyond caring.

Cas’s legs darted over to him, and then Bobby felt hands on his knees as Cas tried his best to pull him out quicker. “Cas, it’s fine, I got it,” he wheezed gruffly, squeezing his eyes shut and trying not to make too much noise because yeah, he may have been fine, but moving was a real bitch right now—that truck had landed right on his leg and he was gonna have one hell of a bruise, not to mention the fact that his ribs were still hurting.

“Bobby, are you all right?! Is anything broken?! Are you bleeding internally?!”

Bobby finally managed a thin smile and permitted himself one painful laugh because he could feel the sun on him and was finally free. Cas’s hands were on his arms, trying to pull him into a sitting position.

“Yes, no, and no, idjit,” Bobby answered, opening his eyes. “Let’s just—”

_Oh my God._

Cas’s dick was right in his face.

Because Cas was _naked_.

_Outside!_

“ _Get in the house!_ ” he bellowed hoarsely. Cas jumped at his sudden yell, but refused to let go, trying to pull him to his feet.

“Bobby, I have to—”

“You have to _get inside_! What the _hell_ , Cas?! You’re friggin’ _naked_!” Bobby snarled, throwing Cas’s hands off of him and then making the sound of a dying walrus because _dammit_ , flailing around _hurt_ —

And that stupid angel _still_ was fluttering around him, waving his ass in the wind, trying to find new places to stand so he could put his junk right under Bobby’s nose. “Please let me help you, Bobby—” he was pleading, completely oblivious to the fact that it was high noon and he didn’t have a stitch on except for those ridiculous flip-flops.

“No! Would you just— _shit!_ ” He fumbled with his flannel overshirt, struggling to get his arms out of it, but that hurt too, _everything_ hurt, and _Cas was fucking naked_!

Finally he wrenched his arm out of his shirt and threw it at Cas’s face. “Put that _on_ , you little shit, and _get back in the house_!”

And Cas, confused and upset and worried and panicking, put it on, just as he was told—slid his arms neatly into the sleeves and buttoned it up just like a shirt was supposed to be worn before turning and scampering back towards the house, the shirttails fluttering in the breeze and his ass still bared for all to see—

And Bobby swore another blue streak just as good as the one he’d let loose when the truck had fallen on him when he heard the car horn, and then turned towards the road just in time to see the blue SUV drive by, the people inside pointing and laughing—

_Balls!_

* * *

_Finally_ Bobby got comfortable on the couch again after sending Cas back up to his room for the fifth time, but not with threats of more chores this time—no, this time, with promises of a _beating_. He was _not_ going to the hospital because he didn’t have a broken rib, so no, he wasn’t going to puncture his lung or heart and he didn’t have any internal bleeding and his leg wasn’t broken and he wasn’t in shock. So he’d yelled at Cas to stay off the damn internet and stay in his room this time and just let him relax. Cas had gone—moping the whole way, of course—and now he could just sit here, stripped down to a wife beater with icepacks on his leg and his side and his whiskey on the floor next to him.

God, wasn’t _that_ just a beautiful image to present.

Well, to hell with it. Nobody that mattered would be seein’ him like this anyway. He was achy and irritated and didn’t care about anything except just sitting here until dinner. Hopefully the aspirin would kick in and the swelling would go down a bit and it wouldn’t hurt as much by then. Cas still didn’t have a whole lot of experience with cooking, given that Bobby didn’t trust him with anything more complicated than a TV dinner at the moment, so he’d probably have to be the one to cook tonight. Couldn’t exactly send Cas out to pick anything up, after all. Dumbass.

Bobby _still_ couldn’t believe what had just happened two hours ago. He didn’t care that Cas had saved him—why couldn’t he have saved him _while wearing pants_?! God, that little runt was such a friggin’ _nudist_! Out of all the things Bobby figured he’d have trouble trying to teach Cas, he did not think that making Cas understand why it was important to _wear clothes_ would’ve been one of them. He guessed Cas running outside buckass naked was only the natural progression of things. He skipped downstairs naked, wandered the halls naked, pranced around his own room naked, so why _not_ just go outside naked, too? Why deny the rest of the world a good long look at his package?

Bobby grunted as he reached down and found his glass again, taking a good swig of whiskey. He didn’t really want to think about the naked angel anymore. Just ‘cause he’d been living with it for six months now and was _almost_ inured to it at this point didn’t mean he liked to sit around and ponder Cas’s butt. And it sure as hell didn’t mean that just thinkin’ about it still didn’t piss him off.

Doorbell _would_ ring about that time, wouldn’t it?

“ _Shit_ ,” he muttered, making sure he didn’t slam his glass back down on the floor. Slowly and painfully, he eased himself into a sitting position, grabbing the icepacks and setting them aside before rolling down the leg of his jeans and creakily getting to his feet, keeping as much weight as possible off of his left foot. After testing it a little, he snagged his flannel overshirt and limped his way to the door, grumbling about how much things generally sucked. And then he peered out the peephole in his door and realized that no, things hadn’t _really_ sucked until right now.

 _Balls._ There on his doorstep was one Sheriff Jody Mills. He hadn’t seen her for the whole year while Cas was on his coked-out crusade. When he’d finally gotten to see her again when he’d settled back in at the house, the hug she’d given him had been so full of promise that it was enough to even give an old cynic like him a little hope. Figures the next time he’d see her would be now.

Wincing, he struggled to pull his shirt back on, because he couldn’t open the door in just a wife-beater. That’d look…bad. It took him way longer than it should’ve to get it on—so long, in fact, that he had to yell, “I’m coming!” through the door when a knock sounded next—and then he finally swung the door open.

Just looking at Jody’s expression, Bobby knew _precisely_ why she was here.

“So…Bobby. Hey,” she said by way of greeting, her tone full of forced casualness.

“Hey,” Bobby grunted back.

She glanced around, obviously casting about for words, but then finally spoke again. “I got an… _interesting_ call on you.”

“Really,” Bobby said flatly.

“Yeah, really,” she nodded. “Two calls, actually—one from a pretty pissed-off soccer-mom. Apparently…” She paused, giving him an amused, if slightly boggled look. “These people claimed that they saw a naked man running around your lot right by the road.” She drummed her fingers on her hips, her amusement becoming a lot more pronounced as Bobby just stared back at her, thinking up all kinds of new ways to kill Cas. “Bobby, _please_ tell me you haven’t taken up nudism.”

“ _No_ ,” Bobby said fiercely. “No, I haven’t. That wasn’t me.”

Jody paused, blinking a little. “So…there _was_ a naked man running around your property?”

“Yes. There was. Unfortunately.”

Bobby sighed, rubbing a hand across his face as Jody just stared incredulously at him, obviously unable to believe that the reports were accurate this time. “It was Cas,” Bobby clarified.

“And…who’s Cas?”

“My houseboy.”

The word fell out of his mouth before he realized how it sounded, and Jody’s raised eyebrows were what alerted him to the very bad word choice. “You have a naked houseboy,” she repeated, sounding very, _very_ amused now.

“ _No!_ ” Bobby groaned, scrubbing his hand across his face. “It—dammit!” He turned a little. “Castiel! Get down here! And you’d _better_ have clothes on!”

He turned back to Jody, trying to look apologetic as he gestured her inside, but knew he just looked pissy because thinking about Cas did not improve his mood. Having to bring him down and let someone other than the three of them see Cas was something he liked even less, despite Jody being in the know about things. However, as he closed the door he reminded himself that it _was_ Jody. People were gonna find out about Bobby’s strange new tenant sooner or later, and she was probably the one that they had to worry about the least.

“When did you get a…houseboy, anyway?” Jody asked while they waited, her voice laughing.

Bobby scowled. “Few months ago. Fell out of the sky and onto my doorstep.”

“Relative of yours?”

“No, just…an old friend of the boys’. He doesn’t have anyone else, and nowhere else to go.”

“Sweet of you. You a sucker for stray kittens and puppies, too?”

“Believe me—stray kittens and puppies would definitely be givin’ me a lot less grief compared to what I got now,” Bobby grumbled as he finally heard the creaking of his staircase that heralded Cas’s approach. “Sam and Dean got _nothin’_ on him in the idiocy department.”

Jody chuckled, and then peered around Bobby. Bobby turned around again and there was Cas. He was clothed, fortunately—baggy sweats and a ratty T-shirt, and all mangy-looking with his shaggy hair and patchy beard. He was staring warily back at Jody; understandable, seeing as they’d taught him to not talk to strangers for fear of being recognized, especially people who were obviously law. Bobby waved him over impatiently. Cas obeyed, making his way slowly over to them so he could stand next to Bobby and meet her.

“Cas, this is Sheriff Jody Mills. Jody, this is Castiel,” he said gruffly. Cas didn’t offer to shake her hand, of course, because he still didn’t get that, but she didn’t seem to think anything of it. She just nodded. “Jody’s here ‘cause two people called the cops on your naked butt.”

Cas didn’t even have the sense to blush, just staring rather blankly at them both. Bobby rolled his eyes. God, with the way he looked right now, his skanky appearance and his clueless expression—Jody probably thought he’d taken in some guy off the streets. Or maybe just fresh out of rehab. “You wanna _explain_ yourself, Cas? Tell Jody what you were doin’ outside naked.”

Cas blinked. “I had to save Bobby,” he finally said very seriously. “He was working on a truck and it fell on him—he was pinned under it. I was in my room and saw it fall, so I ran down to help him.”

“Ah,” Jody said, nodding, giving Cas a rather speculative look before turning back to him. “You hurt, Bobby?”

“Nothin’ serious—just bruises,” Bobby shrugged.

“So, Cas,” she said, turning back to that idiot next to them. “You…had to take off your clothes to come rescue Bobby from the truck?” she asked rather delicately.

“No, I didn’t have any clothes on at the time. I was doing the ironing,” Cas replied matter-of-factly.

Bobby slowly rubbed his hand across his eyes again; his headache had just started going away, too. When he dropped his hand again, Jody looked like she wanted to laugh, but was politely not doing so. “Okay, so…naked laundry. I see. You couldn’t—just throw on a pair of pants or something?” she asked.

“There was no time—I thought…I thought he’d been killed when I saw it fall,” Cas admitted, sounding a little distressed.

“Well, everything worked out okay,” Jody reassured him. “I think indecent exposure for a good cause balances itself out, so I’ll let you off with a warning. Next time, though, go ahead and put some shorts on, at least, or I’ll have to charge you.”

“I will,” Cas promised solemnly.

“Right. Now get back upstairs,” Bobby ordered.

Cas nodded at Bobby and then turned, his bare feet slapping softly against the floorboards. But he didn’t leave—instead, he turned _back_ , his big eyes all worry and concern. “Bobby,” he pleaded, pushing back the hair that had flopped down over his forehead and into his eyes, and Bobby recognized that tone, “are you _sure_ you didn’t strain too hard and give yourself a hernia—”

“Get _upstairs_ , dammit!” Bobby snarled.

Cas gave him that mournful look again, but _finally_ left, shuffling off to go sulk in his room (in the nude, he was sure), and Bobby ground his teeth together as he turned back to face Jody, just knowing she was about to bust out laughing in his face—har har, _hernia_ —

He stopped when he realized that no, she wasn’t laughing—she was looking at Cas’s retreating back, her eyes narrowed, her face slowly going from one of confusion and scrutiny to alarm and— _recognition_ —

_Shit._

She flicked her gaze back to his. “Bobby,” she said slowly, “who, _exactly_ , is Cas?”

Bobby was silent for a moment, running through all of his options and all of the probable results of each one—and then he eventually sighed and slumped a little, pursing his lips. “Okay, I’m—not gonna lie to you. You—probably saw him a couple of times on the news in the past year—never got any good photos of him, but there were one or two of him where they could _kinda_ see his face. Wasn’t wearin’ sweats and an I Heart New York shirt, though—suit and overcoat back then. No beard.”

Jody’s eyes widened, her jaw dropping a little. “That—Bobby, that’s _him_? That psycho on the news? The one who directed the mass suicide of that cult—who was on the scene of all those attacks against all the extremist groups? And you have him _here_?” She paused, and then added in a tone of complete confusion, “Naked?”

Bobby blew a breath out through his nose. “Jody, relax, he’s—” Dammit, this was precisely what he’d been afraid would happen. But…well, if anyone needed to know just what he was keeping in his house right now, she was the one—because she could help make sure nobody _else_ knew and started poking around. “I can’t help the naked part ‘cause that ain’t my fault; he does that on his own. And I can’t really give you the _whole_ story on why he’s here and what happened ‘cause it’s…long, complicated, and even _I_ don’t understand the half of it. But Cas was…yeah, that was him you saw on the news, but he wasn’t—right in the head at the time. He was—on a really bad trip.”

“A _bad trip_?” she repeated in disbelief. “No, Bobby—a guy on a bad trip is the character I picked up wandering around the park in his underwear last week with no idea where he was. All those killings were not just a _bad trip_.”

Bobby scrubbed his hand across his chin. “Okay, not quite a bad trip, but he was… _possessed_ , more or less, by somethin’ bigger ‘n badder than anything we’ve _ever_ encountered. It was him, yeah, but it really wasn’t _him_ doin’ all that killin’ and everything. He was just along for the ride with the things that hijacked his body.”

Jody seemed to get it, despite looking rather suspicious and not _entirely_ placated. But she wasn’t saying anything and did not look the least bit pleased, so Bobby continued. “He’s fine now, I swear. We got that stuff out of him and he’s back in his right mind and he’s fine, but he’s…well, you saw him. The idjit’s not in any shape to be out there on his own. He’s a danger to _himself_ , not anybody else. And the sorry bastard has people on four different planes of existence all gunning for him after what he was up to, so we just…we gotta keep him here to protect him. Believe me—he’s harmless now. We just…need keep it quiet about him bein’ here, or else some seriously bad stuff could happen to him.”

Jody’s mouth was still a thin line, but her jaw had relaxed and Bobby could tell she wouldn’t be bringing back the FBI or anything to try and take Cas out. Not for the first time he was glad to have someone in the police department on his side for a change. “Well,” she finally said, “can you at least see that he doesn’t run around naked outside anymore?”

“I’m workin’ on that,” Bobby grunted, relieved. “Took me forever and a day to break him of the habit of just wandering down here in his birthday suit when I called him downstairs, after all.”

Jody snorted a little. “Sounds fun.” There was a pause, and then, “Bobby, who—what _is_ he? Really?” she asked a little haltingly.

“Retarded,” Bobby said flatly.

Finally Jody laughed. Now Bobby knew for sure there wouldn’t be any problems. “I see. Well, if that’s the case, take extra-good care of Special K, there.”

“Oh, I _will_ , believe me,” Bobby replied ominously.

“‘Kay. Well, then, I guess I can get out of your hair.” She smiled, her eyes no longer wary. “Good to see you, Bobby—especially since I’m not breaking any laws this time.”

“You too,” he said, smiling a little himself now. “So…can you…downplay this a little? Not file a report on this or anything?” he hedged.

Jody smiled at him. “There was just some nut running around naked in your lot. You chased him off and don’t want to press charges, so no one to look for.”

Bobby snorted. “Yeah, that’s not too far off.”

She smiled again. “I’ll see you later, Bobby.” Her grin widened and her eyes twinkled. “Hopefully not to talk about the naked man you keep in your house.”

Bobby scowled, feeling his neck heat up a little. “Shut up.”


	6. Barbershop

_Set between “Just What I Needed” and “I Want to Know What Love Is”_

Finally, Dean was asleep. He’d been incredibly bitchy since coming home that evening. Actually, he’d been bitchy for the past month or two, and it was starting to piss Bobby off. In no small part because Cas was starting to mope again. It wasn’t as bad as it was in his first month or so as part of the Greater Sioux Falls population, but it sure as hell wasn’t a walk in the park.

He flicked a glance to where Dean was racked out on the downstairs couch. Boy needed to straighten himself out. Then he snorted. _That’s what he said._ Yeah, Bobby knew it was probably gonna take a while before Dean unwound, for the very fact that he _wasn’t_ going to be straightening out any time soon.

Still didn’t mean he had to be so premenstrual all the time. After a day or two, Bobby had been less sore and had more or less stopped being so pissed off over Cas’s bout with exhibitionism and had begun to see the humor in it. Sam sure had found it funny as hell when he told him about Cas charging to his rescue in the buff.

Dean hadn’t at all. His face had been dark and he refused to look at anybody, and the minute Cas had come wandering back downstairs with Sam’s dirty clothes, he’d glared a hole in him and gone off on him for not having cut his hair or shaved in a while, and then stomped outside for a sulk.

Bobby just shook his head as Dean’s prone form twitched a little before relaxing back into sleep; he’d done that since he was a kid, slept like a log with only the occasional tiny motion other than his breathing. He supposed they’d just have to wait it out—this was one hell of a “lifestyle change,” or whatever for the kid. He just needed time.

Bobby just hoped it wasn’t too much time—not time enough for Cas to work himself into a snit and go emo or something, anyway.

Ah—well, that didn’t look like that case yet, anyway. Bobby raised his eyebrows as Cas appeared at the foot of the stairs. His face was pink and shining and covered with little bloodied scraps of tissue; he hadn’t quite gotten the knack of shaving yet, and that had been a full (if scrubby) beard that he’d cultivated.

But it obviously wasn’t enough to stand up to Dean’s displeasure, so now it was gone. And now he looked even more ridiculous. Bobby hadn’t though it was possible for him to look like a bigger dumbbutt than he had with that huge mop of hair and that scraggly growth on his face, but no, now with no beard and just the mop, he looked like some kind of throwback from a hobo-themed discothèque.

Bobby sniggered into his glass as Cas detoured into the bathroom, but his laughter dried up in a hurry when he saw Cas come wandering back out with the black case carrying Bobby’s hair clipper set and start back towards the stairs with it.

“Hey,” he said sharply, and Cas paused. “What d’you think you’re doing with that?”

Cas looked down at the case in his hands. “I’m going to cut my hair,” he whispered seriously.

“No, you’re not.”

Cas’s brow furrowed under the fuzzy fringe that was flopping down into his eyes. “Yes, I am. Dean wants me to, so I read about how to do it on the internet and—”

Bobby stood. “Gimme that.” He snapped his fingers when Cas hesitated, and then yanked the case out of his hands when Cas finally handed it over, looking rather pathetic about it. God knew what he thought he was going to do with these things. Visions of Cas running around the house half-bald and mangy—and probably naked again—danced in Bobby’s head. “Come on into the kitchen,” he sighed. “I’ll do it.”

Cas’s hanging head tentatively came up. “You will?” he asked.

“Yeah,” he grumbled, swinging around the desk and into the kitchen, Cas trailing obediently behind him.

“Thank you.”

Bobby just grunted.


	7. Burned

_Set between “I Want to Know What Love Is” and “Give a Little Bit”_

Sam should’ve known that Dean was about to pull a dick move when he came out of that grocery store. Something about that smirk and the way he stuffed the bag under his feet when he got back into the car instead of handing it across to Sam like he did the beer.

But he’d been hungry and eager to get home, and was already annoyed that Dean had taken so long in there in the first place, because it shouldn’t have taken that long to just get some beer to go with their Chinese food. So he hadn’t said anything about it, just grumbled at Dean that it was about time and scowled at the face Dean had pulled at him as he’d thrown the car into gear and pulled out of the parking lot to head for Bobby’s so they could eat. After all, when Dean had said he’d just wanted to get some pie for dessert, that explained his delay—didn’t explain why he had to cram it under his seat, but Sam didn’t care.

Dean had made Sam carry in the beer, of course—always giving him the heavier stuff because he was a jerk. Sam took it inside, letting Dean carry in the food.

Cas had, of course, immediately started setting the table and getting plates out and getting the drinks while Dean just sat there and let him wait on him. Cas was attentive as ever, giving him the last cold beer from the fridge while everyone else just got the semi-chilled ones they’d just bought. They’d all settled down to eat, Cas popping open his moo goo gai pan and Dean making fun of him for using a fork. Cas had once more insisted that he hated chopsticks and saw no reason to eat food with a different set of utensils strictly because of what country the cuisine came from—and Dean had made fun of him for that, too. Sam had just shaken his head, amazed as always at how Cas just…just _took_ it, not arguing back and letting Dean poke him. Dean was an ass to everybody, but at least everybody else didn’t take his crap lying down—Cas _did_. And frankly, Sam was of the opinion that sometimes, Dean took advantage of it.

They were all quietly eating when it finally happened.

Sam looked up when he saw that Cas had stopped eating and was chewing very deliberately, looking confused. He swallowed, but didn’t make a move to eat another bite and just sat there, staring at his plate.

“Cas?” Sam asked. “Something up?”

Cas opened his mouth to answer, but then closed it, swallowing noisily, his confusion starting to become alarm. “I—I don’t know…”

Now _Sam_ was starting to get alarmed, because Cas’s face was starting to turn red and he was getting more and more freaked out. He dropped his fork with a clatter. “Sam—there’s something—”

“What’s going on?” Bobby demanded, setting down his own chopsticks and looking next to him at Cas, who was starting to _sweat_ now.

“It’s—it’s _burning_ —I don’t—” Cas sounded like he was about to start panicking any second now, but Sam had heard what he said and looked beside him—

And Dean, that sorry son of a bitch, was trying not to _laugh_ , that _bastard_ —

Cas suddenly staggered to his feet, his eyes huge and his hand over his mouth, and he went racing out of the kitchen, and Bobby was hot on his heels, quickly jumping up and going after him. Sam could tell that Dean was about to let out a big laugh when suddenly they all heard a loud retching sound from the bathroom and Cas’s wails of pain suddenly went wet and gurgly and any and all humor vanished from Dean’s face.

Sam just stared at Dean in appalled disbelief, but before he could say anything, Bobby came storming back out, grabbing Cas’s half-full glass of water and tossing it into the sink and then quickly opening the fridge and refilling the glass with milk. After Bobby closed the fridge door with more force than was necessary, he gave Dean a glare that was enough to singe his eyebrows.

“You _jackass_ ,” Bobby growled, but didn’t wait to hear any of Dean’s protests or excuses—he just went right back into the bathroom, where Cas was _still_ retching, and in between pukes Sam could hear him crying how much it burned and hurt.

“What, how was I—” Dean said to Bobby’s back, but then he turned to Sam and tried to continue his self-defense. “How was I supposed to—to know he’d be such a puss?!”

“ _Seriously_ , Dean?” Sam said witheringly. “What the hell did you put in his food?”

Dean squirmed uncomfortably, but his chin still jutted in defiance. “Just one of those little red peppers—you know, the kind I stuck in your food once,” he said sullenly.

“One of—you mean one of those little Chinese peppers?” Sam demanded incredulously. “Jesus, Dean, that gave me the burning shits for two days straight!”

“Yeah,” Dean snarled back, “and it was _funny_!”

“And you think _this_ is?!”

“I didn’t say that!” Dean barked back at him. “I just—look, Cas is a pansy and always has been about hot food! You made fun of him when he tried the hot sauce that we brought home from that new Mexican restaurant in town!”

“I did not!”

“Yes, you were, I saw you laughin’ at him when he chugged his Coke in one gulp after that—”

“Even if I _was_ laughing at him, Dean,” Sam cut him off angrily, “are you _seriously_ trying to compare that to this? Especially when that restaurant _sucked_ and their so-called hot sauce was basically tomato sauce with a little jalapeño juice in it! If anything, that makes what you just did _worse_ , because you _know_ he can’t take hot stuff and you did it anyway! You are an _asshole_ , Dean!”

Dean’s jaw worked for a moment while he tried to think of a scathing reply, but eventually he just blurted out, “Oh, fuck you!” and then furiously crossed his arms and stared at the opposite wall.

Sam didn’t bother trying to yell at him anymore and instead glared at the tabletop, listening to Bobby telling Cas that it was okay and to drink his milk slowly a little at a time and not swallow it, but hold it in his mouth and swish it around a little before just spitting it out. He was sorely tempted to go in there and help out—mostly to get away from _Dean_ , the dick—but three would be a crowd in there. That, and as sorry as he felt for Cas right now, he…honestly didn’t wanna have to deal with his puke.

Finally, a few minutes of silence later, Sam heard the toilet flush for the third time and then Cas and Bobby came back into the kitchen, Bobby looking blackly at Dean and poor Cas looking shaky, sick, and blotchy because he was pale under the flush of his cheeks, and his eyes were red and watering. Bobby sat him down at the table and took his glass, going over to the fridge to get him another drink of milk. When he returned, he crossed his arms and looked back at Dean.

“ _Well?_ ” he demanded loudly when Dean refused to look at any of them.

Dean had the nerve to act _surprised_ that Bobby was talking to him. “What?” he responded defiantly.

“Why don’t you explain to Cas why he just puked up liquid fire?” Bobby snarled back.

Dean kept his mouth resolutely shut while Cas just stared blearily from face to face, sipping his milk every two seconds. When it became clear Dean was going to continue being the huge asshat he was, Bobby growled and spoke again. “Dean, just tell him what you did and apologize, dammit.”

“No,” Dean replied bitchily. “Not my fault he’s—you know, such a _wimp_ about everything.”

Bobby looked about like he was going to unload on Dean, but that was when Cas finally spoke up. “Did you put something in my food?” he demanded—croakily, but it was still a clear demand.

Dean wouldn’t look at him, and instead just picked up his chopsticks and began forcefully eating his lo mein.

“He put an insanely hot pepper in your food,” Sam said flatly. “Because he thought it was _funny_.”

“I didn’t laugh, dammit,” Dean snarled.

But it didn’t really matter that Dean didn’t laugh, because, despite the fact that he looked terrible, Cas also looked _furious_ , and for once, all of it was directed at _Dean_.

Cas didn’t eat anything else for lunch, and he didn’t say anything else, either—he just glared at the table, fuming while everyone else ate. And once everyone was done, Cas quickly got up and reassured Bobby that, despite _painfully_ throwing up and still having stomach cramps, he could clear the table.

Well—three-quarters of the table, anyway.

Dean just sat there, staring in disbelief as Cas swept up the table around him, picked up everyone else’s dishes and cleared off all their boxes, but left everything that was on Dean’s corner of the table right where it was, and once he was done, he looked pointedly ahead and marched right out of the kitchen and upstairs to his room, the door slamming shortly after.

Sam didn’t say a word—he didn’t need to. And besides, he had a feeling Dean might punch him if he did.

* * *

Dean put up with a lot of crap from Cas, he really did. But _this_ —this was the _end of the line_ , goddammit!

The fact that this—this _siege_ was going on all because of that fucking pepper was the most ridiculous part of all. It was just a _pepper_! That Dean _hadn’t_ known would give Cas the vapors, he might add! How was he supposed to— _son of a_ bitch _!_

Dean hadn’t said anything that first day after lunch, when Cas had _subtly_ left all of his shit there and made him clean it up himself. Fine—he’d take that one. He’d also taken Cas ignoring him for the rest of the day, because he’d pretty much ignored _everyone_ that day, staying up in his room and not coming out until it was time to eat dinner. But then he’d done it _again_ —he’d set the table like he had at lunch with one major exception: he’d set _three_ spots instead of four. Dean had had to get his own plate and drink. And when dinner was over, Cas had cleared the table—with one major exception. _Again._

Dean would’ve put up with it for a day—maybe even two days! But no, it hadn’t stopped there—and it hadn’t stopped with just not clearing his place at _every fucking meal_ , either, oh no. Cas wouldn’t speak to him—hell, he wouldn’t even acknowledge his _presence_. And he was being such a fucking _bitch_ about it. Oh, Dean had been about ready to sock him right in the jaw when Dean _politely_ asked Cas if he knew where he’d left his good leather jacket and Cas had actually _turned to Sam_ and snottily said, “Sam, tell Dean I don’t know,” before flouncing off to the basement to do laundry. Dean very nearly took out his frustration on Sam when it looked like the little turd was about to burst out laughing and then had the nerve to very kindly relay the message back to Dean.

All of that had been bad enough. The fact that this shit had been going on for _two fucking months_ had been bad enough. But this…this last hunt had been the last straw.

He and Sam had headed out last week to go check out a possible ghoul case—grave robbing and corpse defilement was usually a pretty good sign of those bastards. Dean had been more than happy to go—anything to get away from Little Miss Prissy Pants and his _Little Helper_ , who had _deliberately_ messed up his order at lunch and gotten him a fucking _veggie burger_ instead of the bacon cheeseburger he’d asked for—and Bobby had fucking _let him_ , the bastard! He’d been the one driving and making the order! So he and Sam had left, and when they’d stopped for the night, they’d set up shop in their motel room as they always did.

And when Dean unzipped his bag the next morning so he could get dressed and start investigating the case, he was hit in the face with the funk of his three-week old dirty clothes that hadn’t been washed since his last hunt—which had involved stomping around in a cow pasture, looking for the bones of an old farmhand.

Next to him, Sam had been cheerfully taking out his own clothes, which were crisp, clean, and neatly folded.

Dean _had_ yelled at Sam then, when he saw the uppity little snot smirking at him. He had better have thanked his lucky stars that he hadn’t punched him, too, for good measure.

Dean had taken his filthy clothes and his wounded pride to the local Laundromat, and after he and Sam had dispatched the three ghouls that had been trawling the local cemeteries, they’d headed back to Bobby’s. Along the ride home, Dean had decided that enough was too much. This had to fucking _end_. He’d been hoping to wait it out, but no, apparently he couldn’t (last week, Bobby had patronizingly informed him that there was no way he was going to wait out Cas’s little diva fit because Cas was roughly 14.6 billion years old and had spent virtually all of it just standing around, watching the universe form and watching evolution and _waiting_ for the Apocalypse to start—he could take Dean any day). He’d have to take _active_ steps to make Cas lighten up. The dick.

He hadn’t seen Cas since they’d gotten home a few hours ago—wise move on his part, considering Dean might’ve throttled him the second he walked in the door for his little stunt with his clothes. But now that he’d eaten a late dinner and everyone else had turned in early, he’d finally decided to nut up and go do what he so did _not_ want to do—go upstairs and tell Cas to quit being such a bitch because it was just a frickin’ _joke_.

God, this was going to be horrible.

He only hesitated a second or two before raising his fist and knocking on Cas’s door. He took forever, of course, which was deliberate—he knew Cas was awake because of the light coming out from under his door. He’d better not answer it naked, either.

The knob finally rattled and the door swung open, and Dean ground his teeth when Cas’s politely curious expression went hard and pissy the second he saw Dean. He said absolutely nothing, just crossed his arms and glowered.

Dean huffed irritably. “Cas,” he ground out. “Can I talk to you?”

Cas continued to glare at him. “I was reading,” he said stiffly.

Dean resisted the urge to raise his eyes skyward. “Okay—fine. Can I talk to you or not?”

“Yes.” And that was all he said, just standing there in the doorway, still staring frostily at Dean.

Dean resisted the urge to punch _him_ , too. “Can I talk to you _in your room_?” Dean finally said.

Cas’s chin jutted further, but then he moved away from the door, turning and mincing back to bed and leaving Dean standing where he was.

 _Swear to God, I am going to kill him—just see if I don’t._ Dean shut the door once he was inside and turned around in time to see Cas getting back under the covers. Dean thanked the powers that be that it was early spring—Cas apparently didn’t _like_ clothes, and only really wore them when he was in his room alone was if it was cold. As such, Dean suspected that the fact that they’d had one last late cold snap was the only reason he hadn’t gotten an eyeful. At least he’d gotten lucky _there_.

But that was about the only place he was lucky, because Cas has just picked his book back up and was resolutely reading it, staring so hard at the pages Dean was surprised he wasn’t burning a hole through it.

Dean was frankly glad to see that Cas all wasn’t shaggy and beardy anymore like he was when he last saw him—he’d been that way at Bobby’s suggestion. It’d been nearly a year since he’d been unplugged, and Bobby figured that all the news interest and such about him had died down and so wanted to start easing him out of the house for short little trips here and there. He still refused to let him do it unless he was well-disguised, lack of media attention or not, so that meant Cas’s straggly, patchy beard, a hat, and sometimes sunglasses. He’d been wearing just that last week when he and Bobby had gone to pick up lunch, the bastards. Well, Dean didn’t care about disguises—he _hated_ Cas’s beardy look and told him so any time he had it. Least it was gone again.

But that wasn’t why he was up here—he was up here to kick Cas out of this nonsense so things could get back to fucking normal. Only problem was he really wasn’t sure where to start with that.

Well, he sure as hell wasn’t gonna shuffle around like an idiot. “Cas, look—I seriously didn’t know you were _that_ wimpy about hot shit, okay?” he said.

Cas forcefully turned the page.

Dean’s jaw clenched. “Would you put that down and look at me?” he said through gritted teeth.

Amazingly, Cas did as he was told, snapping it shut and putting it down in his lap, glancing over at Dean sourly.

Dean huffed irritably. “It was a _joke_ ,” he continued. “A joke, okay? I didn’t—I didn’t fucking do it to make you puke or think you were dyin’ or whatever you thought was goin’ on! I wasn’t—I wasn’t _picking_ on you! I mean, for crying out loud, I—I do shit like that to Sam all the time! And he does it to me! It’s—it’s supposed to be for _fun_!”

Okay, Dean had no clue which part of what he’d said had been the part to make Cas’s expression suddenly soften a little, but he ran with it—anything to get him to stop _bitch-facing_.

“It’s just—what we do,” he started lamely, so not wanting to go over and sit on the bed but doing it anyway, slinking over and gingerly sitting at the very end. “So don’t—don’t be so _pissy_ about it. Sam didn’t have a friggin’ tantrum when I slipped _him_ a pepper. And I didn’t have a fit when he paid me back by throwing a red shirt in with all of my damn whites so I had to walk around with pink underwear and socks for three months.” Dean scowled at the memory. “So I—I guess—” He growled and forced it out. “I’m _sorry_ , okay?”

Cas’s pre-menstrual funk was pretty well gone now, and he was just looking a little sullen as he picked at the sheets. “Thank you,” he finally said, and then looked up at him. “And I apologize for my own behavior.”

 _Yeah, you better, you prima donna buttnugget_ , Dean thought grumpily, but didn’t say anything. Personally, he thought it ridiculous that _he_ was the one who’d had to apologize first, but whatever—anything to get Cas to stop all this.

He supposed he could leave now—he could just get up and walk out and tell Cas good night and this would be the end of it. Well…he was pretty sure it would be. Cas wasn’t looking so pissed off anymore, but…well, he was still kinda sulky…

Dean didn’t like not having a solid guarantee of not having to endure this shit anymore, not after coming up here and humiliating himself like this. He wanted to make _sure_ that Cas wasn’t…gonna be acting like a big giant _woman_ in the morning.

Fuck. That meant…

Dean sighed, staring at the ceiling for a few seconds. He hadn’t come up here to do that. He _so_ hadn’t come up here to do that. Hell, he _never_ came up here to do that. But…maybe he could just…a _little_.

He scooted further up the bed and closer to Cas, feeling his neck burn as he did. Cas stayed still, just watching, but Dean didn’t miss the way he was looking a lot less pouty and instead a little _hopeful_ now…god _dammit_ …now Dean was frickin’ _committed_ to doing it…

“So, uh,” he coughed, stalling the inevitable. “We—we good?”

“Yes,” Cas replied.

Dean swallowed. “Okay.” He unconsciously licked his lips, steeling himself for what he was about to do…and then he just did it, turning and leaning forward, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing his lips right against Cas’s.

He didn’t instantly pull away and retreat back to the end of the bed like he so wanted to; no, instead he made himself linger a little, and once he was done, he only pulled back an inch or so before forcing his eyes open to see Cas. And see him he did—his eyes were open and they were big and blue and so damn _content_ , and Dean wanted to pull back now—right fucking _now_ —because that _look_ was there and it was in full force and who the hell said Cas could reach up and wind his fingers through his fucking hair and pull him back down for another kiss?!

Dean certainly hadn’t, but Cas was doing it anyway, one hand gentle and soft on the back of his neck, stroking as he kissed him and then kissed him again, that stupid _shy_ act of his driving Dean batshit like it always did because he liked that but it didn’t change the fact that he was _kissing Cas_!

Dean was very uncomfortable in the position he was in, all leaned over Cas and struggling not to fall on him as he twisted himself where he sat so he could get to him. Unfortunately, the only other option that let him keep at it was to get _more_ comfortable, and that meant—getting more into _bed_ with Cas. He _so_ did not want to do that…but Cas was shifting and leaning into it, bumping Dean’s forehead with his own and sighing, and Dean could feel it against his lips…

He never, _ever_ knew how he wound up like this—the fact still remained that it wasn’t okay for him to be half-sitting, half-laying down on top of Cas with Cas fucking _nuzzling_ him before leaning up to kiss him again, his tongue sneaking out to gently lick across Dean’s lower lip.

Making sure to keep everything as slow and steady as he possibly could, Dean just…let Cas do it, tamping down on the way his gut twisted when he slid his own tongue out because he couldn’t help but take Cas up on his open-mouthed invitation, because he just— _dammit_ , this _still_ wasn’t okay! How many times was this now that he’d—somehow fucking wound up _making out_ with Cas?! And why did—why did some part of him _like it_?! Because he _hated_ that part of him, the part that was actually _enjoying_ the way Cas’s warm hands felt on his back as Cas slowly embraced him, mostly ‘cause that part was _always_ the part that made him kiss back.

Well, to _hell_ with it tonight. He came—up here to—to fucking apologize, and he’d _done it_. He didn’t come up here to kiss Cas. So he was _done_.

He let Cas press one last soft kiss to the corner of his mouth before sitting back up, keeping his eyes shut as he struggled to make his stomach stop churning and his chest to stop warming up like it always did when he did this shit with Cas. Cas let him go, sighing happily, and Dean felt the bed move as he settled back down against his pillows. Making sure it didn’t look like he was jumping up and running away (he so was), he got up out of bed, looking back down at Cas as he did.

Cas was _looking_ at him, his blue eyes completely devoid of any sulkiness or bitchiness, and Dean couldn’t enjoy it because—dammit, that _look_ —why did it _always_ —

“‘Night,” Dean muttered, heading for the door.

“Good night, Dean.”

* * *

When Sam came downstairs that morning, Dean was already up and brooding at the kitchen table. He only grunted at Sam when he said hello, and Sam was pleasantly surprised to find Cas cooking breakfast—it smelled like sausage _and_ bacon to go with the eggs he could hear him whisking in the pan.

“Hey, Cas,” Sam said, stifling a yawn.

“Good morning, Sam,” Cas responded serenely.

Sam didn’t have any time to contemplate that, because Dean suddenly demanded, “Cas, get me a beer.”

Cas promptly stopped what he was doing and went over to the fridge, opening it up and obediently getting out a bottle of beer and even going so far as to twist the cap off for Dean before setting it down on the table in front of him. Dean didn’t thank him, but Cas didn’t seem to need it as he went right back to making breakfast.

Sam sighed, going over to the cabinet to find the bread so he could make some toast to go with breakfast. Oh, well—Cas’s backbone was nice while it lasted.


	8. Hot Blooded

_Set between “I Want to Know What Love Is” and “Give a Little Bit”_

Well, that was one monster that Sam definitely didn’t want to tangle with again.

All but collapsing into the passenger side of the Impala, he reached over and slammed the door shut, his aching ribs howling in protest. He slumped back in his seat, closing his eyes and leaning his head back for a moment as he listened to Dean getting in, hearing the jingling of keys as he started the ignition with the roar of the engine, and then felt the car start moving as they rolled out of the cemetery. He could’ve definitely just fallen asleep like this, but knew he wouldn’t. For one, Dean would more than likely get pissy because Sam wasn’t showing appropriate enthusiasm over him delivering the killing blow, as it were. For another, he needed to call Bobby and let him know that his research paid off.

So, heaving a small sigh, he wiggled painfully around to get his phone out of his pocket, opening his eyes as he finally dug it out before flipping it open and scrolling to Bobby’s number.

“Callin’ home base?” Dean suddenly asked.

“Yeah,” Sam replied, listening to the phone ring flatly in his ear. It finally picked up after the fifth ring.

“Hey, Bobby,” Sam said by way of greeting. “Still alive—and you were right. It was a Jiang Shi.”

“Thought so. The long white hair was the giveaway. You boys find a peach tree to get a stake from all right, then?”

“Yeah, that took care of it. And the tip about holding our breath worked too—kept it from being able to zero in on us long enough for us to stake it.” He shifted a little, grimacing at the twinge from his ribs. “Didn’t want to go willingly, though.”

He heard Bobby snort. “Since when does anything we put down wanna go quietly?”

Sam smiled. “Yeah, I know. We’re probably gonna head back home now, though—kind of a rough fight, having to deal with a weird Chinese zombie-ghost, and all.”

“No problem,” Bobby said. “Just head on in and—what in the _hell_ do you think you’re doin’?!”

Sam started, but Bobby just kept yelling. “Get back in there! _Now_ , boy!”

“Bobby?” Sam asked, confused.

“Hang on,” Bobby growled, and then he went off again. “I said _get in there_. I have a shotgun full of rock salt and so help me I will unload it on your ass if you don’t get back in the damn tub.”

And then Sam heard the answer in the background—quieter, of course, but still audible. “It’s _freezing_! I’m going to get hypothermia!” came the raspy and weak-sounding—but still obviously furious—reply.

“You’re not gonna get _hypothermia_ , you dumb shit. Now keep your sorry ass _in there_.” There was another pause with the sound of splashing, and then finally Bobby was speaking into the phone again. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

“Bobby,” Sam started slowly, “what on earth was that?”

“Nothin’,” Bobby said casually.

“Was that Cas?”

“Yep.”

Sam hesitated; out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dean looking curiously at him. “What’s going on? Is he okay?”

“He’s fine,” Bobby replied breezily.

“I hate you,” Sam heard in the distance, accompanied by more splashing sounds and then a great hacking cough.

“I’m sure ya do,” Bobby agreed, his voice genial.

“You’re hor—” More coughing, and then, “You’re a _horrible_ old man! You like _torturing_ me!”

“Actually, I’m torturing _me_ , ‘cause I’m having to look at your naked ass right now.”

“I _hate_ y—” Cas didn’t finish, because he just started coughing again, a horrible, wet, choking sound, accompanied by even more splashing.

“Yeah, yeah—you just keep tellin’ yourself that—and remember this when you’re thankin’ me afterward.”

“Bobby, seriously,” Sam said flatly. “What the hell is going on?” Dean was watching him with furrowed brows.

Bobby sighed in resigned annoyance. “Cas has the flu. He’s had it all week. His fever’s been going up all that time, but it topped out at 105 today. It’s been there for, oh, ‘bout six hours now. So I’m takin’ care of it.” Bobby’s voice went patronizingly sarcastic. “Seems Cas has some objections to the water temperature.”

“Ah,” Sam said.

“Is that Dean?!” Cas was trying to raise his voice, but it wasn’t working—his last coughing fit had apparently taken his voice, and he quickly degenerated into another bout of hacking.

“No, it’s not, so shut up.” Bobby sighed again into the phone. “Don’t worry about him—he’ll be fine. The old tepid bath trick works every time.”

Sam smiled ruefully. “Yeah—I remember the time you stuck me in one when I had chicken pox.”

“I bet you do,” Bobby answered, amused. “Your teeth were chatterin’ like a wind-up toy.” Sam smiled as Bobby went on, “Anyway, you can leave the winged whiner to me; you boys just head on back.”

“Uh, okay,” Sam said. “Is there anything we can pick up for him on our way back?”

“Aside from a straightjacket?” came the snide reply.

Sam snorted a little into the phone, smiling despite himself. “Yeah—aside from that. Any medication or anything?”

“Nah—I already stocked up on that stuff. And pray to God that you never have to experience the joys of smearing Vicks VapoRub on Cas’s scrawny chest while he hacks up a lung.” Sam reflexively gave a small, grimacing laugh, and then Bobby spoke again. “Listen—I gotta go. Cas’s fever just broke.” And a trifle smugly, he added, “He loves me now.” And with a beep he hung up.


	9. Stumbling Block

_Set between “I Want to Know What Love Is” and “Give a Little Bit”_

Sam was pretty well conditioned to go on point any time he heard a very loud thump. He wasn’t just talking about when something nasty went bump in the night either—in his experience loud bumps at any time never meant anything good.

As such, he knew that the sudden loud noise that sounded like a body falling upstairs followed by a brief cry of either surprise or pain could only mean trouble.

Sam and Dean both immediately stopped arguing over whether or not _Big Trouble in Little China_ was a good movie and looked towards the stairs. Sam could see out of the corner of his eyes that Bobby was looking too, and then he was the first one to move, getting up and slowly walking out of the kitchen. “Cas?” he called.

No answer for at least five seconds, during which Sam started to feel the little stirrings of alarm. But then—“Bobby?”

That was Cas, and he _did_ sound alarmed—and in pain.

Sam was behind Bobby as they fast-walked up the stairs, and it wasn’t too hard to find Cas—he was just right there, curled up against the wall of the hallway, clothes flung everywhere, the hamper upside down nearby, and the hall rug bunched up where Cas had clearly caught his foot and tripped on it.

“Cas, what happened—you not payin’ attention to where you’re walkin’?” Bobby groused, bending down and getting a closer look at Cas’s white face.

Cas was just staring at his wrist—the one he had cradled near his body. The one that, even from where he was, Sam could see was starting to swell.

Bobby saw it too, and his mouth twisted. “Great. Come on, lemme see it,” he said gruffly, gently pulling at Cas’s other arm, but he refused to move.

Bobby sighed. “Cas, let me see it—now.”

Even now, Cas couldn’t refuse a direct order, and he finally uncurled himself and slowly allowed Bobby to see his wrist, and both of them immediately could tell that Cas had broken it.

“You try to catch yourself when you fell?” Bobby asked.

“Yes, and—I can’t move my wrist, Bobby, I—I think it’s broken. But I don’t—I don’t _know_ ,” Cas responded, sounding strained.

“Well, I do know—it’s broken,” Bobby said. “Come on—we’ll get you to the hospital.”

“But _what_ is broken?” Cas suddenly said, allowing himself to be helped to his feet by Bobby and Sam.

“Just your wrist,” Sam answered, knowing from the set of Bobby’s eyebrows that his answer would have been a little less diplomatic.

Cas turned to him, his eyes big and frightened. “The human wrist has eight carpels and four joints and also involves the radius and ulna—I could have broken any of those—or _many_ of those. It could be the hamate, the captitate, scaphoid—”

“That’s why we’re takin’ you to the doctor, dumbass,” Bobby said roughly. “They’ll be able to tell you.” Both of them looked up when they saw Dean finally appear at the top of the stairs, looking wary and pointedly _not_ looking at Cas. “Dean, come here and take him—I gotta get the car because he’s gotta go to the ER—”

“I’ll get it,” Dean said immediately, and before anyone could say anything to that, he was gone, charging down the stairs and out of sight.

Sam rolled his eyes and shook his head. _Dammit, Dean…_

But he was distracted from that by Cas again. “There could be complications,” he was suddenly saying, sounding panicky now. “If the break is severe enough, I might require surgery. Am I allergic to any anesthetics?” he asked, his voice becoming more and more panicky. “What if I’m allergic to morphine? What if I die during surgery—I know humans’ hearts can stop during—”

“Cas!” Bobby said over him, sounding incredulous. “You’re not gonna need _surgery_! It’s just a break—the doctor’ll line it back up and put a cast on you and you’ll be fine!”

“Then what about the complications of breaks?” Cas demanded. “If the break is severe enough, bone marrow could get into my blood stream—and if it is improperly realigned, my wrist won’t heal right and I won’t have full mobility anymore. And then I could get arthritis in later years.” He looked down at his hand as if willing it to heal. “My hand doesn’t feel numb, but what if during the setting the bones pinch or deform the nerves inside my wrist or cut off the blood vessels—”

“ _Cas!_ ” Sam interrupted, trying to just herd him down the stairs because this was _ridiculous_. “None of that is going to happen! Calm down!”

“Why are you panicking like this? Bobby demanded. “You’ve been hurt before—you didn’t go on like this when you burned your damn hand!”

“But I _knew_ what that was, and I—Bobby, I don’t _know_ what’s wrong!” Cas replied, his voice agonized. “Before, when I was an angel, I—I always _knew_ exactly what was wrong with my vessel, but now I don’t _know_ —I don’t _know_ what part of my wrist is broken and what else could be wrong!”

Bobby growled in his throat. “Cas, that’s what it’s like to be human. Now _calm down_ , would you? We will _find out_. That’s what _doctors_ are for. Let’s just get you out to the car and to the ER and they’ll fix you up and you won’t have any problems after that.

“But—”

“ _No._ Just shut up and get to the car. Sam, get some ice packs.”

Sam nodded, going over to the fridge after grabbing some towels. He really didn’t think Cas needed to be so worried—after all, Sam had broken his wrist before and been fine. In fact, he’d just kept hunting even with the cast, and hadn’t even gone to a doctor to remove it—Dean had just sawed through it for him after his six weeks were up, and after that, it was smooth sailing. All Cas would have to do is keep working his wrist and do the same exercises that Sam had done for himself.

When he headed out to the car where it was waiting out front, he saw Cas and Bobby in the back while Dean was sitting stiffly up in the front. Sam rolled his eyes and passed the bag of frozen peas back to them after hopping into the front. Cas’s expression was a combination of terror and doom; he was still apparently going down the list of every single thing that could go wrong in his head and from the look of him, was convinced that every one of them would.

“Seriously, Cas, you’ll be fine—I broke my wrist once, and I’m fine,” Sam offered up as reassurance.

“All of us have had a lot worse happen to us and we’re fine,” Bobby said gruffly as he put the peas in the towel and wrapped the whole thing around Cas’s wrist. “Quit goin’ on about it, Cas—just hold the ice there.”

Dean didn’t say anything—he just put the car in gear and pulled out onto the drive, wheeling his way to the road.

Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes again and instead settled for minutely shaking his head. Dean really was an idiot sometimes. But, he reflected as he glanced back at Cas as Bobby irritably told him that no, putting pressure on his wrist wouldn’t make his bones move and pinch his nerves, he guessed it was okay, because Cas was kind of an idiot too.


	10. Three's a Crowd

_Set between “I Want to Know What Love Is” and “Give a Little Bit”_

Jody Mills was a respectable sheriff, dammit. She kept the town as clean as possible and was a straight shooter. So weird requests from Bobby where she occasionally had to bend and even _break_ the law were seriously beginning to stick in her craw.

She _supposed_ this one wasn’t so bad—all Bobby wanted were to see some sealed juvenile records of two guys, Raymond Wilson and Tony Brayleigh. Wasn’t like he was asking her to help with a damn prison break again. She supposed she should just look on the bright side and hand over the photocopies she’d snuck out of the office.

Shutting and locking her patrol car door, she made her way up to Bobby’s front door and knocked, waiting patiently as she always did for him to answer—he seemed to take a little bit longer to get to the door now that he had his…new housemate. She frowned a little upon thinking about _that_ new aspect of Bobby’s illegal activities, because, while he’d explained it in ways she understood, the fact still remained that he was harboring a notorious criminal—one responsible for the deaths of _thousands_. It just…didn’t sit well with her.

The door opened before she could contemplate it further and there was Bobby, and she smiled at him. “Hey, Bobby.”

“Hey—what’re you doin’ out here?” Bobby asked.

She rolled her eyes. “Well, you did ask me for info.” She held up the folder she’d had under her arm.

Bobby raised his eyebrows. “Oh—you could’ve just called with it.”

“You’re welcome,” she retorted dryly. “And besides—you drove all the way into town to ask for it instead of just calling, so I figured I may as well return the favor.”

Bobby ducked his head a little and grumbled something that might’ve been “shaddup,” but she ignored that and took him up on his offer to come inside. She handed him the folder on the way in.

“I dunno if it’s good or bad for you guys, but yes, both of them were tried in juvenile court for being involved with the murder of Cody Underwood,” she continued. “Their records were sealed due to their age and that was that.”

“Thanks,” Bobby said, reading through the files. “And trust me, that’s definitely good news on our end.”

“Well, I’m glad—and that’s all the info I really need on just how _good_ it is for you to hear about a murder trial involving kids, thank you.”

Bobby gave her an apologetic look, but then closed the file and set it down on the table, trudging over to the couch where a pile of laundry was sitting, a smaller one made up of folded towels next to it.

“Laundry day?” she asked, deciding that filling the silence that was a teensy bit awkward with some small talk might be nice.

Bobby nodded, sighing. “Yeah—normally I wouldn’t be doin’ it, though. Cas is my usual when it comes to laundry and crap like that—but he’s outta commission. Broke his wrist a couple of weeks ago.”

“Oh—that’s too bad,” Jody said. “He, uh—okay?”

“Yeah, he’s fine—I’m just havin’ to do laundry now. I did my own for years, but I’ve kinda gotten used to havin’ him do it. Feel stupid for that,” Bobby groused, and Jody was treated to a rather entertaining display as Bobby tried (and failed) to fold a fitted sheet.

She watched Bobby struggle with it for a few more seconds before her pity finally overtook her amusement. “You want a hand?” she asked dryly.

Bobby gave her a sheepish little glare, his neck coloring a little. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

Jody smirked at him, taking the whole thing from him and undoing the rumpled mess that Bobby’d made of it. “It’s really not that hard,” she said.

“Yeah, I know—I mean, even _Cas_ can do it. I explained the idea to him and he took to it and folds ‘em faster than anyone I’ve ever seen,” Bobby said grumpily. “I _know_ how to do it, it just…winds up like that every damn time.”

Jody deftly folded it up as it should’ve been and set the nice flat square on top of the pile. “Well, lucky for you you’ve got your houseboy to do it for you,” she said lightly.

Bobby snorted a little, and then moved on to the matching top sheet while Jody picked up a towel and started folding it. With her helping, the laundry was done in no time.

“Thanks,” Bobby said, and Jody smiled warmly at him.

“No prob—I’ll even help you put them away.”

Bobby smiled bashfully at her, and she couldn’t help but duck her head a little in return, feeling silly. She picked up the load of towels after Bobby grabbed the sheets, and she followed him up the stairs.

“How’re things at the sheriff’s office, anyway?” Bobby asked as they went up.

“As they always are—just doing my best to keep things quiet and cover up the occasional strange occurrence over here.”

Bobby chuckled. “I really should buy you a gift basket for all the stuff you do for me.”

“You should. My favorite scent is honeysuckle and I like Whitman’s Samplers best, just so you know,” she replied as Bobby opened up the hall closet.

“Well, I’ll definitely keep that in mind.”

Jody handed him her pile of laundry after he’d put his own onto their proper shelves, and she waited patiently while he tucked those away, too, and then he swung the door closed—at the same time the doorway at the end of the hall swung open and a huge cloud of steam came billowing out, and Castiel came walking out with it.

He was holding his arm up in the air—and it was wrapped in a big, black trash bag, which was meticulously and thoroughly folded and wrapped around his arm, held in place with a complicated lattice of tape and rubber bands—undoubtedly to keep his cast from getting wet. But, as ridiculous as it looked, Jody hardly noticed it. She was rather more focused on the fact that Castiel was completely and utterly naked.

And, if she was going to be perfectly honest, what she was looking at was…a rather impressive sight.

“Oh—hello, Sheriff Mills,” Castiel said pleasantly as he walked past them, completely unabashed, just keeping his arm aloft as he held his other hand under it to try and catch anything dripping off of it. “I didn’t know you were here.”

He never stopped, just kept moving, and then Jody was treated to the view of the other side and got a chance to see his pert little butt as he wandered into a bedroom and shut the door.

Jody just blinked, finally having the wherewithal to close her mouth, and then looked back over at Bobby, who appeared to be having a stroke. “Well,” she finally managed, “naked houseboy strikes again?”

That appeared to snap Bobby out of it. “Excuse me,” he said politely, if a bit strained, and then stiffly walked down the hall, opened the door without knocking, and closed it behind him.

Not that it mattered. She could hear him anyway.

“ _What the hell do you think you’re doin’, marchin’ out there naked?!_ ” Pause. “No, I did _not_ say that, you dipshit, I meant _in your room_!” And another pause. “Then why can’t you use a friggin’ _towel_ , or take your clothes in there _with_ you?! Dammit, boy, you don’t do that in front of a _lady_! If it weren’t for your arm, you’d be diggin’ a hole from here all the way to _China_!” There was one more pause. “ _I know about friggin’ magma, it’s just an expression!_ ”

She could hear Bobby stomping, and then the door swung open again and Bobby came storming out, slamming it behind him. He froze when he spotted Jody, who was trying very hard not to laugh now.

Clearing his throat, he slowly walked over to her, obviously doing a great deal to maintain his composure. When he finally reached her, he gave her a very brittle smile. “Why don’t I walk ya to the door?”

“Yeah, I think you’d better.”


	11. Self Help

_Set between “I Want to Know What Love Is” and “Give a Little Bit”_

Bobby was on the verge of forbidding Cas to use the internet. Ever since he’d broken his wrist, seemed like he didn’t do anything but sit up in his room with Bobby’s laptop and look up new and imaginative health issues for him to obsess over. Bobby’d figured he was just going through a phase or something and he’d tried to just let it run its course; okay, so Cas wanted them to have salads for dinner at least once a week so they’d get enough vegetables—whatever. And he’d started insisting that they both have a glass of milk and one of orange juice in the mornings so that they would get their full daily recommended dose of Vitamins C and D—fine. And he’d switched to whole-grain bread rather than plain sandwich white—Bobby didn’t mind that (even if Dean bitched about it). But when he’d tried to tell Bobby that they should cut all red meat out of their diet, well, he’d had to draw a line there.

“But, Bobby,” Cas had fussed, “this vessel—I can’t _repair_ it anymore. I can’t tell if it has a propensity for certain conditions, and I won’t know if something goes wrong. I don’t know how long it will last if I don’t take the best possible care of it.”

“Welcome to humanity,” Bobby said flatly. “Now shut up and gimme my damn hamburger.”

Bobby had managed to make it clear to Cas that _no one_ knew when their ticker or whatever was about to go south—that was just how life was, and Cas could just deal with it like everyone else on the planet. No sense in deprivin’ yourself of what few nice things their kind had in life just worryin’ about what _might_ happen. Anyway, in their line of work, the odds of goin’ out in some boring way like blocked arteries or somethin’ just weren’t worth bothering with.

Well, all right, then. If Cas wasn’t going to worry about issues that he didn’t have, he was gonna find an issue he did have and worry about that, instead. Even if he had to make up an issue to do it.

Bobby was diggin’ through one of his older grimories, trying to figure out if Sam and Dean’s method of staking a zombie in its grave was the only way, or if any of the other lore was worth tryin’, when he heard it.

“Bobby?”

He looked up. Cas was standing at the foot of the stairs, twisting the fingers of his good hand with the ones sticking out of his cast, his eyes anxious.

Bobby eyed him. “What is it, Cas?” he asked, wary; he’d learned to distrust that fretful look Cas got, because it usually meant he was about to say something Bobby didn’t want to hear—if he’d found some new disease outbreak he was sure they’d catch, Bobby’d smack him right upside the head.

“Bobby, I—” He swallowed noisily. “I have an impacted colon.”

Bobby stared at him, before finally managing to ask, “ _What?_ ”

Cas chewed on his lip. “I think I have an impacted colon, Bobby,” he repeated.

“What in the hell are you talking about?” Bobby demanded.

Cas had started pacing back and forth in front of his desk; it was crazy that Bobby should notice that Cas was picking up Dean’s habits when he was talking about his friggin’ _colon_ , but there it was. “I read about it on the internet,” he said, sounding agitated, “and I have all the symptoms.” He stopped and turned to Bobby, looking frightened. “You have to take me to the hospital immediately before I develop necrosis of the rectum.”

“Okay, Cas, that’s just _nasty_ ,” Bobby said, appalled. “Now stop makin’ stuff up and just tell me what the hell your problem is.”

Cas started ticking symptoms off on his fingers. “I am experiencing bloat and discomfort, loss of appetite, and I haven’t produced a bowel movement in three days.” He looked vindicated after his pronouncement, as if he’d just proved something.

Bobby couldn’t believe this. “Impacted colon?” he said incredulously. “You’re just _constipated_ , you dumbass—and you decide you have _an impacted colon_?”

Cas blinked at Bobby’s disbelief, and then his chin poked out a little. “You don’t know I don’t have an impacted colon,” he said, a touch of defiance in his fussy tone now. “You’re not a doctor.”

“ _Yes_ , I _do_ know—I don’t have to be a doctor to know that. I told you you shouldn’t be eatin’ grilled cheese sandwiches three times a day, but you wouldn’t listen, and now you’re payin’ the price,” he informed him. “Now, I want you to stop screwin’ around on the internet—you’re just workin’ yourself up over stuff that doesn’t exist—cut it out!”

Cas looked vaguely mutinous, but in the face of Bobby’s refusal to believe his latest load of nonsense, he eventually just settled on sulkily going upstairs.

Five minutes later he was down again.

“I read about constipation,” he said grudgingly, and Bobby scowled; he’d told him to stay off that damn computer. “It may only be that,” Cas conceded. “But I need to resolve it as soon as possible or else it will _become_ an impacted colon,” he added immediately, apparently unwilling to give that one up, and Bobby rolled his eyes. Cas didn’t notice and just plowed right on. “I need you to help me administer an enema.”

“ _What?!_ ” Bobby roared, making Cas jump. “ _No_ , I’m not givin’ you an _enema_!” Oh, that was _it_. Bobby shoved his chair backwards and stood, storming around his desk and grabbing Cas’s good arm; he wilted immediately and now was looking confused and pathetic as Bobby frog-marched him upstairs and into the bathroom.

Growling under his breath the whole time, Bobby yanked open his medicine cabinet until he found the blue bottle. “ _Here_ ,” he said, thrusting it into Cas’s hands. “That’s milk of magnesia—a _laxative_ ; you just take it like it says on the label and everything will be fine. A goddamn _enema_ …” he growled as he left, leaving Cas to read the bottle with furrowed brows.

Bobby detoured into Cas’s room before he went downstairs; there was Bobby’s laptop, sitting open on Cas’s little desk, with a dozen health sites pulled up and the tab for the Wikipedia page on “Fecal Impaction” open on top.

It was time, to make an appropriate pun, to nip this one in the bud. Bobby forcefully closed the laptop, unplugged it, and picked it up. This was going downstairs with him, and Cas was officially _grounded_ —no more internet for a week.

* * *

_One week later_

Bobby was standing by the kitchen sink while Cas was making breakfast. Cas liked to keep their dishes clean and set out on the counter: a plate, a mug, a glass, a bowl, and a complete set of silver for both of them. Bobby had pulled a late night last night, though, so he’d dirtied up his usual coffee cup (the one that read “I’m with Stupid” with the arrow underneath it), and he’d brought it in from the library to wash it so Cas could fill it up with his morning milk.

He looked up just in time to see Cas open up a canister of Metamucil, scoop up a heaping spoonful, and dump it into Bobby’s orange juice.

He looked at him, bristling. “Cas,” he growled warningly, “what the hell are you doing?”

Cas looked up. “I’m adding a fiber supplement to your orange juice,” he said matter-of-factly.

“And just what the hell do you mean by _that_?” he snarled.

Cas looked a little bewildered by his tone, but then turned back to the glasses—and added a generous spoonful to his own juice, too. “I was very uncomfortable last week,” he said as he stirred, “so I am taking preventative measures to avoid it in the future.”

“Okay, fine—so why the hell are you dosin’ _me_ up, too?”

Cas looked up at him again, his face utterly guileless. “It was very unpleasant; I would like to help you avoid it as well.”

Bobby ground his teeth, but the fight had gone out of him. “Okay,” he grunted at last, and went to sit down.

What the hell—if he was gonna be honest, it certainly couldn’t hurt. He just hoped the boys never got word of this—he’d never hear the end of it.


	12. Dr. Ruth Tells All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This fic details the prior events mentioned in "[Give a Little Bit](http://archiveofourown.org/works/966017)."

_Set just before “Give a Little Bit”_

Bobby watched the Impala recede down his driveway, going faster than necessary, and then he shook his head when it sent up a spray of gravel as the tire spun a little as it lurched out onto the road. He pursed his lips a little at the rapidly vanishing taillights; Dean was pissed off about somethin’, that was for sure. No other reason he’d have jumped so fast for the case Bobby had found—messy, bloody deaths that were classic hallmarks of a witch with an axe to grind.

Dean hated witches, but the minute Bobby said that he thought he’d found one, Dean was all over it, even to the point of blasting Sam awake way earlier than Dean himself liked to be up and not waiting around for breakfast or even for the sun to rise, just forcibly cramming Sam in the car and then skedaddling.

Bobby had a rough guess as to the source of Dean’s issues, but it wasn’t confirmed until well after sunup when Cas came tentatively down the stairs, looking anxiously around the room. “Where’s Dean, Bobby?” he asked, his eyes all big and worried.

“He ‘n’ Sam went off on a case early this morning,” Bobby told him, looking up from his funny papers.

And just like that, Cas’s face crumpled. Bobby could only roll his eyes skyward as Cas just sorta folded up, his face a study in misery. “Cas,” he said tiredly, “don’t do that. I don’t know what Dean’s problem is this time, but it’s not your fault—”

“Yes, it is!” Cas said unhappily. “I upset him, and that’s why he left!”

“It’s a lot more likely he twisted his own panties up himself, not ‘cause of anything you did,” Bobby informed him.

Cas was insistent. “No, it was me,” he said, his eyes doleful enough to give a basset hound a run for its money.

Bobby sighed; this wasn’t the first time Cas had gone into a nosedive when Dean high-tailed it out of there, but this _was_ the first time he seemed to think it was something specific that he did, rather than just assuming it was because he was a monster or something. “What’d you do?” Bobby asked, resignedly.

Cas suddenly went cagey. “I’m not supposed to talk about it,” he said warily.

Oh, great. So it wasn’t just something Cas did, it was something Cas did with _Dean_ , which meant it was something that Bobby really, _really_ didn’t want to hear about— _nobody_ in the house wanted to hear about _that_. But if the choice was hearing about whatever patty-fingers were going on abovestairs or spending a month with Cas wailing about Dean being mad at him, well, he guessed he’d just have to go with the lesser of two evils.

“Cas,” he said tiredly, “lemme explain somethin’ to ya. See, the reason you’re not supposed to talk about it is ‘cause Dean doesn’t want anybody to know what you two get up to, right?”

Cas nodded, looking fretful as he twisted the hem of his shirt in his hands.

“Well, see, you don’t have to worry about that, ‘cause I already know what you two do,” Bobby informed him.

“You do?” Cas sounded panicked.

Bobby barely kept from rolling his eyes. “Yeah, Cas, I do,” he said flatly. “So you see, since I already know about everything, you can go ahead and tell me whatever you need to anytime you’re havin’ troubles so we can get things sorted out between you and Dean, okay?”

The idiot angel did not look convinced; Bobby sighed. “And we won’t say anything about it to Dean, so he can go on pretending that I don’t know anything, all right?” he added.

Cas chewed on his lip, but finally nodded hesitantly.

 _Finally, we’re getting somewhere._ “Okay, then,” Bobby prompted. “What the hell is Dean’s problem?”

Cas immediately went pathetic again. “It’s my fault, Bobby,” he said morosely. “I did something terrible, and now he’s angry with me.”

This was getting old in a hurry. “Well?” he finally demanded when Cas just sat there angsting and not _saying_ anything.

“Last night, I—” he began haltingly. “Last night, when Dean was kissing me, I—” Bobby grimaced— “I accidentally orgasmed.”

Cas cringed at the end of his confession, as if he expected Bobby to hit him for it, and now was sitting there, all shamefaced and woebegone and looking like he’d just confessed to murder. Bobby just looked at him, waiting for the other shoe to drop; when it didn’t, he asked, “What—that’s it?”

“I didn’t mean to, Bobby!” Cas wailed. “It was just that—I was aroused, and—Dean got angry the first time that happened, too, but he doesn’t seem to mind as much anymore, and it’s so wonderful, the way he caresses me, and I didn’t mean to—I didn’t know I was going to, but I—I did,” he finished lamely.

Bobby looked to the side, bewildered, and then tried, “Uh, so—what was wrong with that? Was Dean mad ‘cause he wanted to be the one to—” No, he didn’t want to go there. He tried a different tack. “Has—has that happened before, or anything?”

“Once,” Cas said, his eyes all big and sad. “It was—it was almost two years ago…right after I…” Bobby was alarmed to see that he was starting to fold in on himself, getting that despairing look that characterized his bouts of _real_ depression. “…right after Dean brought me back,” he said quietly. “The night after—we were kissing and I orgasmed then—Dean didn’t speak to me for three months.”

…Huh. Turned out he’d lied to Cas—he really _hadn’t_ known just what Cas and Dean got up to up there. Or rather, what they apparently _didn’t_ get up to, contrary to what he and Sam had always thought. “So—so lemme get this straight—all you two do is—is kiss?” he asked incredulously.

Cas nodded, wrapping his arms around his elbows.

 _You mean to tell me that for two years all they’ve been doin’ up there is canoodle like a pair of horny teenagers without parental supervision? For Christ’s sake…_ “And you—went off last night, and now Dean turned tail and ran,” he finished. At least things were starting to make sense—well, as much sense as something could make while being this ridiculous.

Cas nodded again, and Bobby rubbed a hand over his face. “Well…okay, then,” he said, casting around a bit. “So…you say this happened before—but Dean got over it, right? I mean, he—he still—still _kisses_ you, and all?” God, just saying that made him want to crawl under a bed and hide, but he forced himself to stay all sympathetic and understanding.

“Yes—but he didn’t speak to me for months, Bobby,” Cas whined.

Bobby shook his head. “Well, that’s how long it took him—and who knows how long it’ll take this time—but that’s not the point, Cas,” he told him firmly. “The point is that it’s not the end of the world—Dean’ll get over himself and you two can…go back to doing what you do.”

Cas did not appear to like this answer, but it was all he was getting, so he sat there and sulked for a little bit. Bobby was about to declare this incredibly uncomfortable conversation over when Cas looked up. “Bobby?” he asked pitifully. “Why did—how can I—how can I keep from orgasming again, so I don’t upset Dean?”

Oh—see, he’d only _thought_ this conversation had been uncomfortable before. Cas just showed him otherwise. “You _know_ how it happens, boy!” Bobby said, exasperated. At Cas’s uncomprehending look, Bobby prayed that he’d survive this and said, “You were probably—” he screwed up his face but forced himself to go on— “probably _rubbin’_ on him or something. So next time you two are…kissin’, just don’t do that.”

Cas blinked at him, but then nodded before lapsing into a dejected silence, staring out the window. Bobby just rubbed his forehead before getting up and ambling into the kitchen. He’d kinda lost interest in the funnies because there was nothing _funny_ about anything now; he might as well make breakfast. As he opened the fridge, he looked back at the table again, where Cas sitting there all hangdog and glum, and he sighed. He hoped Dean wasn’t gonna spend three months with his head up his ass over this—for Christssakes, it was hardly anything—and probably nothing that Dean himself hadn’t done when he’d first started feelin’ his oats!

No, that wasn’t fair, Bobby told himself as he rummaged around for something edible. Bobby was pretty sure it would take _him_ about that long just to get used to kissin’ a dude, much less to get used to havin’ one cream his shorts all over him; he couldn’t expect any more than that from Dean. Besides, he shouldn’t be upset that those two boneheads were takin’ things so slow—at least that meant he wouldn’t have to hear about anything kinky.


	13. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This fic immediately follows [Give a Little Bit](http://archiveofourown.org/works/966017), and gives Cas's take on the whole thing.

_Set just after “Give a Little Bit”_

If that feathery little turd asked when Dean was gonna be back one more time, Bobby was gonna whack him upside the head with a frying pan.

Yeah, Cas tended to mope when Dean was away, but this was ridiculous. Bobby wasn’t stupid; he knew something had happened between the two of them (and he sure as hell didn’t want to know _what_ ), what with the way Dean had been skulking around and in a big hurry to hit the road, blasting Sam out of the house and back to hunting the second he felt well enough to stand on his feet, and the way that Cas had been all walkin’ on air for a week after he was gone only to crash into this pathetic pining right after. He didn’t want any details—he just wanted Cas to shut the hell up.

He’d been completely useless for the week after the boys left. Sittin’ around, sighing dreamily like a teenaged girl, lightin’ up when Dean had called for some monster stats; Bobby’d had to yell at him for getting water everywhere when he’d been filling up the sink to do the dishes one evening and had spaced out again without shutting the water off and had let it run everywhere. It was pathetic, but barring a few little slipups, at least he was doing his usual chores and wasn’t making a nuisance of himself.

Like he was _now_ , and all. His little lovestruck high had only lasted about a week before he fell back into his “Dean isn’t here” funk, only this time it wasn’t his usual morose sulk. No, now he seemed fretful, wringing his hands and angsting and pestering Bobby _constantly_ about when Dean was next gonna be back. “Do you know where Dean is?” or “Is Dean going to stop by?” and “When is Dean going to come home?” After about week of that, Bobby was _praying_ for him to go back to his Teenager In Love routine.

Finally, when he was sitting there yet again, fidgeting and fussing and clearly not looking up dirt on a suspicious string of killings down in Florida like he’d been told to, Bobby had just dragged his sorry butt away from the table and sat him down on the couch. Desperate to stave off anymore whining about Dean not being home, Bobby had grabbed the nearest non-research book on hand—a nice Danielle Steele, the spine well-creased at all the spiciest scenes—and shoved it in his hands.

“Here,” he’d grunted. “You’re about as useless as titties on a boar hog right now; I gotta work, so quit bothering me and read something to keep yourself entertained.”

Cas’d had the good grace to look abashed, at least, and had meekly settled in to read his book like he was told. And had finished it in record time and wanted another. A bit surprised, Bobby had granted him access to the cabinet where he stored all his romance novels and could only watch, bemused, as Cas took to ‘em with a right good will. Between his chores, he burned through them at a rate of about one a day. He seemed oddly thoughtful—they were trashy bodice-rippers, just how introspective could you be over ‘em?—but Bobby didn’t care about that. All he cared about was that Cas had stopped pissing and moaning about Dean being gone, and he’d actually been able to get some work done.

That had been a little over a week ago; Bobby was sitting at the kitchen table, doing his weekly servicing of the most often-used weapons in his hunting arsenal as a break from dredging through articles looking for possible job hits. Cas was sitting across from him, just wrapping up his latest read—a historical piece this time, _Master of Desire_. He sighed a little when he finished; Bobby glanced up to see him set the closed book down and look out the window, lost in thought.

The room was quiet but for the clicks and thumps as Bobby worked through all the parts of his rifle, cleaning and oiling where it was needed. Bobby had just started reassembling the piece when Cas broke the silence. “Bobby?” he asked.

“Hmm?” he grunted, not looking up from fitting the bolt back in place.

“What does it mean to be in love?”

Bobby froze. It didn’t matter that he knew that Cas never joked—all he could think was that he had _got_ to be joking. Slowly he looked up and could see that no, he wasn’t joking; he was looking earnestly across the table at him, his eyebrows tilted in the way that made him look most like a sad little panda.

Bobby closed his eyes and sighed explosively, going back to his rifle. “Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “usually, that means you care about someone more than anyone else, you want to be with ‘em, you always put them before yourself, ‘n’ you want them to be happy more than anything, even if you have to make sacrifices for it.” His mouth twisting a little in wry amusement as he thought about Sam and Dean and the way they acted toward each other, he felt the need to clarify, “And there’s a—you know—romantic quality to it, too. You can feel all those things for family and all, but when you’re in love, there’s a…physical aspect to it too, generally.”

“By physical, you mean sexual?”

Bobby rolled his eyes at the trigger he was reassembling. “Yeah, Cas—sexual,” he ground out. “You don’t do that stuff with family, but it’s usually considered a part of bein’ actually in love.”

Cas was quiet again, and for long enough that Bobby was just starting to think that the conversation was thankfully finished, when he spoke again. “Bobby…” he trailed off, and the odd tone in his voice made Bobby look up from where he’d been affixing the sight to the barrel.

Cas was staring off into space over Bobby’s shoulder, his eyes wide, his mouth slightly open. “Bobby,” he breathed, sounding dazed. “I—I think I’m in love with Dean.”

Bobby stared at him in disbelief that any one person could be such a complete dumbass. “No shit,” he said flatly, and went right back to his rifle.

Cas started. “You…you knew that?” he asked, stunned.

“ _Everybody_ knows that.”

“I didn’t,” Cas said, bewildered.

“That’s ‘cause you’re an idjit,” Bobby informed him, not looking up from the gun in his hands.

“But—Bobby, I was an angel. I—I didn’t know I _could_ love…not like that. I…” He trailed off, looking stunned and amazed and awestruck, and Bobby thought it was revolting so he ignored him, just kept reassembling his rifle and letting Cas work through his little realization on his own.

Cas was quiet for a moment more, and then haltingly asked, “What—what should I do?”

Bobby sighed again, setting down the rifle. Cas was looking anxious; Bobby could already think of a million ways he could do exactly the wrong thing and really take a great big dump all over the relative peace in the house and send Dean runnin’.

“Nothin’,” Bobby said. “Don’t say anything, just keep doin’ what you always do.” At Cas’s furrowed brows, he went on. “Like I said—everybody already knew how you felt, and we assumed you did, too. You just now figurin’ things out hasn’t changed anything. If I was you, I’d just leave things well enough alone.” He felt a wry smile on his face. “You know how fussy Dean is—you don’t wanna weird him out or anything, talkin’ about this.”

Cas looked pensive, chewing on his lip, and then nodded. Crisis averted, as far as Bobby was concerned, and now maybe they could stop talking about this.

“Do you know if Dean will be coming back soon?”

_Balls._ “No, Cas, I don’t,” he said firmly, and then grabbed the pistol next to him. “Here,” he said, thrusting it across the table into his hands. “Field strip and clean that.” And then he stood, crossing the floor to grab his cell phone from where it was sitting on the library desk, and then heading out the door to stand on the front porch, scrolling through his phonebook and hitting Send.

After only two rings it picked up; Bobby could hear the low rumble of a car engine in the background as Sam said, “Hey, Bobby—what’s up?”

“Where are you boys?” he asked.

“Utah. Just took care of a poltergeist. We’re headed east now; think we might have wind of a skinwalker in Nebraska.”

“Great—and when you’re done there, you’re coming back here,” Bobby informed him.

“…We are?”

“ _Yes._ I don’t care how you do it, I don’t care what hoops you hafta jump through to pull it off, but you are going to find a way to get your dipshit brother back up here so _he_ can deal with Cas, ‘cause I’m _sick_ of it. Got it?”

“Uh—yeah, Bobby. I got it. We’ll, uh, we’ll swing by after we hit Alliance.” Sam sounded a bit taken aback, but he was rollin’ with it; he always was the smart one.

“Good. I’ll see you then.”

“Yeah, sure thing. Bye, Bobby.”

The line cut off and Bobby blew out a breath. He stumped back inside, detouring to the fridge for a much-deserved bottle of nerve medicine—and with that in mind, got one for the neurotic angel too. “Drink up,” he said, setting it down next to Cas, who had completely disassembled the pistol and had laid out all the pieces in meticulous order in front of him. Bobby sat down and took a drink before setting his bottle aside and starting in on his shotgun. “And you’ll be happy to know that I just talked to Sam—he and Dean are gonna go check out a job in Nebraska, and then they’ll head back up here.”

And just like that, Cas lit up like a firefly, the gun parts in his hands forgotten as he turned to gaze out the window as if hoping he’d see Dean driving up already.

“Okay, enough of that,” Bobby grunted at him, rapping on the table with his knuckles to bring him back down to earth. “He’ll be here soon, now you can stop bitchin’ about it and get back to work.”

Cas gave a happy, lovesick sigh before turning back to the pistol, his eyes still bright and his expression damn near as close to cheerful as the angel could get. Bobby just shook his head.

_Idjit._


	14. Different Wavelengths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This fic deals with the immediate "aftermath" of "[Give a Little Bit](http://archiveofourown.org/works/966017)."

_Set after “Give a Little Bit”_

Jesus _Christ_ , what the fuck was wrong with Cas?!

Since they’d gotten back after their latest stint on the road, Cas had been fucking _weird_. Dean had gotten out of the car and was reaching for the doorknob to Bobby’s house, but hadn’t even gotten the chance to touch it when the door suddenly swung open and there was Cas, his eyes all big and looking like Christmas had come early as he rapturously said hello. Dean had been so freaked out by that (and still in _no_ mood to be around Cas, not after what had happened a month ago) that he’d barely said anything back, just pushed past him and tried to avoid him. But it was almost _impossible_ , because everywhere Dean went, Cas seemed to be there, and he was just _staring_ at him! In _front_ of everybody, too!

He’d done everything he could to get away from him for the first day they were back, but when Cas just kept doing it the second day, too, giving him that _look_ every time Dean came around a corner, and Dean—wanting to try to get back to _normal_ from— _last_ time…

Against all better judgment, he’d gone back upstairs—anything to make Cas stop _following him around_.

He’d honestly figured that’s what it was—Dean had…had given him a—a _hand_ last time he was here, and now Cas was just following him and giving him that _look_ in the hopes that Dean would come upstairs and do it again. Well, _fine_. Here he was, upstairs, and what was Cas doing?

_Nothing._

Dean had slunk inside his room and immediately been spotted. Cas had been overjoyed, lighting up and practically _breathing_ Dean’s name from where he was sitting up in bed, which made Dean both want to run away and run over _there_ at the same time, because he both hated and loved the way Cas said that. He’d fussed around the room and done his best to pretend that he _hadn’t_ totally answered a booty call _from Cas_ , but he eventually just gave in and crawled into bed with him, trying to steel himself and not feel sick at the very thought of—of doing _that_ again, if that’s what Cas really wanted.

He’d started puttin’ his thing down, the way it always went, trying to kiss Cas and get into it, but that’s when Cas showed that no, he apparently _didn’t_ want…action. He wanted _nothing_.

Cas was just sitting there! No, it wasn’t like he was _doing_ nothing—and that’s what made it _worse_. He _was_ doing something, and it was—dammit! He was just _petting_ him, trying to stroke Dean’s face, not taking the kisses any deeper, and _fucking staring at him_! Shit, Cas was actually trying—trying to _cuddle_ with him!

Dean had no clue what this was about, but he was getting sick and tired of it, that was for sure—emphasis on the _sick_. It was bad enough he had to come up here and— _touch_ parts of Cas that he’d never, _ever_ wanted to touch, but now Cas wasn’t even helping him along with it now?!

Cas’s sigh snapped him out of his frustrated reverie, and when he looked down, he felt Cas suddenly press his hand against his chest, staring at his fingers for a moment with the most _ridiculous_ look on his face, but then suddenly he looked up and his eyes were staring right into Dean’s, and Dean just wanted to—to lean forward—

So naturally Cas would just close his eyes and rest his head on Dean’s shoulder, sighing again and doing _nothing_.

_Know what? Fuck this._ Dean could not handle this anymore.

Gritting his teeth, he reached down and pried Cas _off_ of him, because if he didn’t want to do his part, he could just fuck himself.

Okay, that was really, really bad word choice.

He got out of bed as fast as possible, staggering a little when he hit the floor, and he glanced down at Cas, expecting to see disappointment or something—but no, there wasn’t even that! He was just lying there, looking stupidly happy and like he just couldn’t believe that Dean was real and standing there.

Resisting the urge to snarl, he turned on his heel and stomped out of the room.

* * *

Okay. The first time this had happened, Dean had rationalized it—maybe Cas just missed him because he was a dumbass, or maybe he was still…riding the high from the last time when Dean had…helped him out. Fine. He’d written it off, and he’d given Cas another month to cool down. He’d thought it was over, given that Cas wasn’t being as fucking _creepy_ now, not following him around and popping up everywhere he was when he least expected it and just _staring_ at him. So he’d straightened his spine and gone upstairs again, hoping that this time he’d be able to enjoy himself and maybe, just maybe, things would be back to normal.

He’d already been getting into Cas’s bed before he realized that no, him laying on top of Cas and licking his neck and enjoying it was _not_ normal and never would be. _Shit._

But he’d done it anyway, just charging him with hardly any build-up, and at first he’d been hopeful when Cas’s breath had hitched and he’d clutched at him—right before _sighing_ and gently kissing Dean back and _petting_ him again.

Okay. That was it. He didn’t—didn’t come up here to fucking _cuddle_! He came up here to—dammit, if they were gonna do this, they were _gonna fucking do this_!

Unable to believe himself, he squeezed his eyes shut and reached up, getting his fingers in Cas’s hair and tugging his head back and then kissing him— _really_ kissing him, just pushing his tongue past Cas’s lips and pressing him down into the mattress as he did.

Cas made a noise in his throat, his hands sliding around him and splaying on Dean’s back through his shirt, but Dean didn’t give him much time to just _hug_ him or something. He tore his mouth away from Cas’s and immediately started kissing and sucking and nibbling on all of the spots on his neck he knew would get him going and refusing to think about exactly _why_ he knew where all of those spots and knew that they got Cas going. He just focused on how Cas was finally, _finally_ starting to squirm and his breath was starting to quicken.

Dean suddenly grabbed the hem of Cas’s shirt and yanked upwards, determined to send the clearest signal _possible_ just so Cas wouldn’t try to _delay_ it anymore because goddammit, he just—he just wanted to _do_ this! And he wanted Cas to stop being so—so fucking _gooey_!

Cas let Dean strip him of his shirt, and then he uttered a soft and strained moan when Dean dragged his hands up and down his hot torso and nipped a little at the thin skin across his clavicle before licking at the base of his throat, and then he fiercely kissed Cas on the mouth again and this time Cas’s tongue thrust up to meet his and Dean couldn’t help shiver a little in both pleasure and revulsion because he was kissing _Cas_ , but he was doing it—doing it to _mean business_ —

Fucking hell, he was doing it to _get him up_!

Before he had any time to fully understand just what he’d started doing, Cas was arching up against him, his fingers digging into Dean’s back. Dean pinned him again, growling a little in his throat, and Cas gasped when Dean brushed his thumbs across both of his nipples, though Dean had no idea why because they weren’t anything special, and then he made a strangled little noise when Dean licked all the way up his throat and behind his ear, and he bumped his hips against Dean’s thigh—“ _Dean…_ ”

Dean shuddered, the heat in his chest blooming even as his stomach rolled because _fuck_ , there it was—God, he was hard, already, Dean had done his job _too_ well and had hardly gotten anything out of it at all, and now Cas was—Dean had wanted to get him going as fast as possible but now that—

_Do it—just fucking_ do it _, dammit!_

He gave Cas zero warning and then just _seized_ him, right through his shorts, and _fuck_ , this was disgusting and wrong and made him want to just jump out of the bed and fucking _run_ , but then _Cas_ just about flew right out of bed, he jumped so hard, and Dean nearly shoved a pillow over his face with how loud his gasp was. He wanted to concentrate on Cas’s noise, because if he got loud again—like he did _last time_ —he so _would_ use that pillow, but—oh, Jesus, he was— _he was jerking Cas off again—_

Cas’s grip around his shoulders was tight as he humped Dean’s hand, sounding like he couldn’t even breathe as he did it, and Dean just wanted to let go and push him off but at the same time he just heard Cas’s moans and the way his body rubbed against his own and he wanted to concentrate on that, but he couldn’t because he had a _cock_ in his hand—

He didn’t have any more time to contemplate it. Cas suddenly buried his face in Dean’s chest, and Dean could feel his mouth was open—and then suddenly Cas had a mouthful of his shirt as a strangled, muffled sound came out of him and his hips thrust violently and erratically—

_Shit shit shit fuck shit he’s coming in your hand again—_

Dean let go and struggled to get Cas _off_ of him and _get his fucking shirt back_ , and he yanked hard on it. Cas let him go, but then his hand flew up and he covered his own mouth, his eyes still squeezed shut as he gasped and wheezed and twitched—

Stumbling out of Cas’s bed, he nearly fell over in his haste to get away from him. But he quickly righted himself and sped out the door, making sure he didn’t slam it and get everyone else’s attention because that was even less acceptable than what he’d just done. He raced for the bathroom, locking himself in and going for the sink for the _third time_.

As he scrubbed at his hand once more, it all finally sank in. His furious scrubbing slowed, and then he just stared at the water running in the sink.

He’d gone into Cas’s room to make out with him. And when Cas hadn’t cooperated, he’d _grabbed his cock_ instead.

He gripped the sides of the sink, struggling not to lose it right here in Bobby’s bathroom because that was the last thing he needed.

What the hell was he _doing_? Why did—why did he just _do that_? What had he been _thinking_?

That was easy— _he hadn’t been._ He’d just…all he’d wanted was for Cas to _stop_ being such—such a giant _girl_ , and for some reason had been convinced that that would be the only way to _make_ him stop…

_In all fairness, it did._

_Son of a_ bitch _!_

He sucked in a breath or two, keeping it slow, steadying himself. No. He knew…he knew what was going on. He…he’d just wanted to go up and…get a little action. Not to grab Cas’s _dick_ , fuck no, but to—

Slumping a little, he admitted it to himself—he just wanted to up and _kiss_ Cas some, just have a nice make-out before going back to his own room, and he apparently couldn’t _do_ that now unless—unless he _did_ that. Dean had just completely messed up the whole thing—because Cas was a _bitch_.

Well, fine. He could—he’d fucking deal with it. If that’s how the exchange was gonna have to go now… _fine._

Didn’t mean he had to like it.


	15. The Transparent Closet

_Set after “Give a Little Bit,” the night after “Different Wavelengths”_

Well. Jody had seen some seriously unpleasant things on the job, but this one right here might have just taken the cake. Her department and the neighboring offices were all calling it the same thing: the work of some psychotic killers or nutjobs who were either part of a cult or just plain crazy. Unfortunately, given that one of her closest friends was Bobby Singer…she knew there was a chance it might be something else.

And she also knew that if that was the case, then she wanted the culprits found fast and put down—and not through normal channels.

As such, after a long day at work, she had headed out to Bobby’s to personally give him the case and all of the relevant information—she figured it might save him some time. At least she could get his expert opinion on whether it was a garden variety crazy or something with a bit more purpose.

Her stomach warming a little when Bobby opened the door, she smiled hugely, and he returned her grin. “Hey—this is a surprise,” he said.

“I’m _full_ of surprises,” she returned. “Got a pretty good one for you this time.” She raised the case folder. “Maybe something up your alley?”

Bobby’s interest was obviously piqued. “Well, come on in and tell us about it,” he said, stepping aside so she could enter.

When she walked in, she was pleased to see that everybody was there; Sam and Dean were sitting at the kitchen table. It’d been a while since she’d seen them. “Hey, boys,” she called, waving.

“Oh—hi, Sheriff,” Sam said pleasantly, smiling and returning her wave.

“Hey,” Dean said, raising his beer at her before tipping it back and draining it. “What brings you out to this neck of the woods?”

“Dismemberment and blood-letting,” she replied.

Bobby’s eyebrows shot up. “No offense, Jody, but I don’t get into that until at least the third date.”

Jody chuckled. “Well, these characters didn’t give their victims much of a choice,” she said. “Three bodies were found outside of Kimball, off of Highway 90; I got involved when it turned out one of the vics was a missing person from my jurisdiction. They were in an abandoned barn, each one staked to the ground spread-eagle and then had their limbs chopped off and were drained out—and the blood was used to draw some pretty freaky symbols around them,” she explained, handing the folder to Bobby. “Figured you boys might want to look at it, see if it’s just some psychos that me and my boys can handle, or if it’s something best left to the specialists.”

Bobby flipped open the folder and made a bit of a face at the pictures he saw. “Yikes.” He squinted a little at the close-ups of the symbols. “Hmm…Sam, get over here—want you to see this.”

Sam stood and came over, peering over his shoulder, and made about the same face that Bobby did when he looked. “That symbol look familiar to you?” Bobby asked, pointing.

Sam stared for a second, and then sighed and nodded. “Yeah—looks kind of like what those demon summoners in Flagstaff were using.”

“Don’t those sickos know that there are easier ways to summon a demon that doesn’t involve killin’ a bunch of people?” Dean grumbled.

“They must be attempting to summon a very powerful demon still chained deep in Hell.”

Jody glanced up, a little startled—that was Castiel. She hadn’t even known he was in here, but there he was, coming into view from wherever he’d been hiding and striding into the kitchen and going to the stove. “Do you want any more spaghetti, Dean?” he asked, stirring the pot on the burner and turning to look at him.

Dean glanced up at him briefly before quickly looking away and staring hard at his beer bottle. “Uh, no,” he muttered, and then shifted uncomfortably and turned away from him.

Bobby and Sam were still looking at the pictures. “I really can’t tell if these are the real deal or not,” Bobby said, flipping through them. “I mean, some of this stuff looks legit, but I don’t even know what _that_ one is. It looks like a friggin’ kindergartner’s drawing from hell.”

“Yeah, same with these,” Sam agreed, pointing to another set.

“May I see?” Castiel suddenly said from the side as he reached down and took Dean’s plate away from the table, and then detouring to the fridge to get Dean another beer and take away the empty bottle before wandering over to the cluster looking at the folder, while Dean stayed where he was.

Bobby and Sam handed the file over to Castiel, who opened it up and looked at the pictures inside with zero reaction whatsoever—well, that wasn’t disturbing or anything.

He continued to look, remaining silent throughout it all, until he came to the last picture of symbols. He pointed to one set immediately. “This is the mark of Asmodeus,” he said matter-of-factly. “They were clearly attempting to summon him, but I don’t believe they were successful—there would have been evidence of his emergence from Hell, such as electrical storms, sudden deaths of animals, and strange behavior in the surrounding human population; I can’t say for certain in my present condition, but it is also possible that I would have felt his presence.” Castiel tucked the pictures away and handed them back to Bobby. “Asmodeus was buried very deep; he may have been released by Azazel through the Hellgate seven years ago, but the three of you exorcised him and returned him to his prison in Hell. Releasing him again would take a very powerful spell; I believe this was an attempt to do so.”

Bobby and Sam both looked almost as stunned as Jody did right now, though she imagined it was for completely different reasons.

“We did _what_ now?” Sam demanded.

“Asmodeus is the demon of wanton sexual desire,” Castiel replied. “He is often referred to as one of the Seven Deadly Sins—Lust. Dean subdued and trapped him and the three of you exorcised him.”

“ _Him?_ ” Dean suddenly burst out, looking rather edgy. “Like hell—that was so not a _him_. That was a chick.”

“He had possessed a human female, yes,” Castiel said, nodding and turning to look at Dean with bright, unblinking eyes, “but Asmodeus is one of the seven princes of Hell.”

Dean just stared for a minute, looking appalled for whatever reason, and then suddenly demanded, “How the hell do you even know I—trapped that demon?”

Castiel opened his mouth to answer, but then glanced at Jody, looking concerned. Jody blinked at him, knowing that look—clearly, Jody wasn’t supposed to know the answer to that particular question. “I…Bobby told me,” he said haltingly, his eyes shifting all around, and even if Jody hadn't been making a living dealing with all manner of con men, scammers, and petty thieves, she’d have known that was a lie.

Bobby rolled his eyes and looked exasperated. “Yeah. I told Cas all about it,” he said dryly, giving Jody an apologetic look. She just snorted a little; Castiel could keep that all to himself, if he wanted—he’d already said more than enough to weird her out, and if that was the stuff he was comfortable saying around her, Lord knew what he _didn’t_ want to say.

Dean was looking very, very uncomfortable, his eyebrows drawn together as he stared at the tabletop. Before Jody could even begin to try and decipher that, Bobby spoke again. “Well, we might take a look at this. It looks like it might be somethin’ interesting—if anything, we wanna stop these freaks from killing again.” He gave her a wry look. “When your best-case scenario is ‘a bunch of people wind up mutilated’, you don’t even need to think about what the worst-case might be. It was at Kimball, you say?”

“Yeah—exact address is in the file,” she replied.

She looked up when she heard the loud scrape of the chair legs on the floor where Dean was quickly getting to his feet. “Right—sounds like a case. Me ‘n Sam’ll head out and go check it out.”

“What—now?” she asked.

“Why not? Just finished dinner, we can make it out there in less than two hours. No problem.” He was talking loudly, and speeding towards the stairs the whole time.

“I finished washing your clothes, Dean,” Castiel suddenly called to his retreating back. “They’re on the upstairs couch.”

Dean didn’t answer; his shoulders hunched a little as he put on a burst of speed and disappeared up the stairs, and Sam sighed a little before turning to Jody. “Thanks for bringing this over—this does help a lot,” he said. He gave her a half-grin. “Gives us fewer chances to get spotted with fake I.D.s, at least.”

“Well, you know me—always ready to assist people who regularly impersonate the law,” she said dryly.

When Sam went around her to get to his own bags, Bobby glanced around, obviously casting around for something to say. “Uh—you eaten yet?” he finally said.

At the mention of the word “eat”, Jody’s stomach reminded her that it existed and was empty. “Actually, no,” she replied. “I didn’t have time for dinner—had to drive out to Kimball this afternoon, and when I got off the case, I drove straight here.”

“Well, we’ve got some spaghetti left—you want some?”

“I would, actually—it smells pretty good,” she admitted.

“And I can say it _was_ pretty good, for a first attempt. Cas made it,” Bobby said. “Cas, make Jody some dinner,” he ordered before going in to the library and pulling out a thick book.

Castiel did as he was told, getting out a plate and filling it up with the appetizing-looking pasta and getting her the glass of water that she asked for before going back to the sink to do the dirty dishes. She sat at the table and watched him flit about, amused, before picking up her fork. _Houseboy, indeed._

“This is good, Castiel—thank you,” she said after her first bite. And it was—thick and meaty, and while not fancy, still very satisfying.

He turned to face her, drying a plate with a towel. “You’re welcome,” he replied benignly before going back to his work.

She took another bite, scrutinizing him surreptitiously as he worked. She was still having trouble with this—how on earth was _this_ the same psychotic cult leader that was responsible for the deaths of thousands? This scrawny guy who walked out in front of her naked like it was nothing and did Bobby’s dishes and washed all of their clothes and made a decent pot of spaghetti?

It was damn disconcerting, was what it was.

She kept eating; with no conversation and only the lulling noises of running water, clinking dishes, and the low murmur of Bobby talking to Sam in the other room, she made short work of her plate. She was almost done when Sam and Dean finally came back into the kitchen, heavy bags slung over their shoulders, and Bobby just behind them.

“Well, we’re heading out—thanks again for the tipoff, Sheriff,” Sam said, nodding.

“No problem—anything to keep, uh, Amadeus in Hell,” she answered.

“Asmodeus,” Castiel corrected from the sink, and then turned and looked at Dean. “Goodbye, Dean. Goodbye, Sam. Please be careful.”

Dean didn’t look at him, and Jody _swore_ she saw a _blush_ creeping up from under his collar as he ducked his head.

_No…surely not…_

“Yeah. Bye, guys,” Dean muttered, and then swept out of the kitchen and into the garage with Sam on his heels.

Castiel watched the boys leave, just standing there drying a glass with his eyes on their retreating backs until the door closed, and then he turned back around and put the glass away before looking at Bobby. “I’m done, Bobby—may I go upstairs to my room?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Bobby grunted, sitting down at the table across from Jody with the big, dusty tome he’d taken off of his bookshelf; Jody privately thought that it could have passed for the Necronomicon. “I don’t have anything else for you today, but remember, you gotta wake up early tomorrow—if the boys do have a genuine case with people like _that_ , we may need to be on call for info. I’ll be up with this tonight,” he said, gesturing to his book. “You think of anything else we need to know, you tell me.”

“Yes, Bobby. Good night.” And he drifted off, his bare feet padding across the floor and to the stairs, and Jody watched him go until he was out of sight.

She chewed slowly, just staring at the spot she’d last seen Castiel.

She felt intrusive, even wanting to ask this, but… “Bobby?” she asked hesitantly. “Dean and Castiel…are they…?”

“Yes,” Bobby said flatly.

Her eyebrows shot up. “ _Seriously?_ ” she blurted out.

“Yeah.” Bobby leaned forward, holding her gaze. “And we don’t know that.”

She leaned back, pursing her lips a little. “Ah. I see.” And she went back to her spaghetti.

Well. That explained a few things. _But really, Dean_ , she thought to herself, smiling a little, _if you don’t want anyone to know, you should probably work on being a little less_ obvious _about it._


	16. Nocturnal Emissions

_Set between “Give a Little Bit” and “Burnin’ for You”_

As much as Bobby enjoyed having the boys around, there were some times when Bobby was glad to get those two idjits out of the house. This was definitely one of those times—Dean was being a complete bitch, and Bobby knew _exactly_ why. Every time he and Cas got in the same room, Dean would try to run away and hide—and if he _couldn’t_ run away and hide, he’d start kickin’ up a fuss and pick fights with Sam until Bobby had had enough and actively _threw_ him out. Which, naturally, left _no one_ in doubt as to what he’d been up to, and gave Bobby all kinds of mental images that he really wasn’t all that interested in.

Didn’t matter that he knew they didn’t get up to too much—Bobby had no desire to think about what little they _did_ get up to.

So, Bobby had “casually” mentioned that there was a possible case out in northern California, knowing full well that Dean would jump on that faster than he could blink—and he had. That left Bobby and Cas on their own, Cas sighing hugely and moping a little, but Bobby could ignore that a lot easier than he could ignore Dean and Sam sniping at each other. Now was the best time, though—Cas had gone to bed, which left Bobby downstairs to watch a little TV before turning in himself. Dean had the right of it there, he would confess—these Spanish soaps really were addictive.

Unfortunately, he didn’t make it ten minutes into an episode before the creak of the stairs heralded the resident angel. Glancing up, he took one look at Cas and sighed, grabbing the remote and muting the TV. That face and the wringing hands told him that something was wrong—specifically, that Cas was about to have a hypochondriac fit on him. Predictable idiot.

“What is it, Cas?” Bobby asked, settling a little more comfortably in his chair.

Cas twisted his hands a little, standing there in his ratty sweats and holey T-shirt, his face a bit flushed. “Bobby, I’m…I don’t know what happened,” he started quietly.

“Then I can’t really help you, can I?” Bobby grunted. “Come on, spit it out—what’s your problem?”

“I—” Cas licked his lips. “Bobby, I was sitting upstairs, and I…I orgasmed.”

Bobby stared at him. For a few seconds, he had zero response. Then, finally, he found his voice again. “Well, that’s what _happens_ when you play with yourself, you dumbass,” he replied incredulously. For God’s _sake_ , what—did he _really_ not understand—

“But I wasn’t,” Cas said, sounding bewildered and worried. “Is…is it normal for a human to orgasm with no physical stimulation?”

Okay, now things were getting a tad weird. Again. “You…weren’t doin’ anything,” Bobby repeated. “Not touchin’ yourself—at all?”

“No. I was just…sitting in bed.”

“So…you were just sittin’ in bed and went off like a Roman candle,” Bobby repeated flatly. He pinched the bridge of his nose when Cas nodded. “No, you weren’t just _sittin’_ there, you had to have been doin’ somethin’. Were you asleep already?”

“No, I was awake.”

“Were you _rubbin’_ on anything by accident?”

“ _No_ , that’s what—that’s what I don’t understand,” Cas answered, and _great_ , Bobby could hear that familiar panic starting up all because Bobby didn’t immediately have all of the answers to his latest imagined health crisis.

“Okay, let’s get to the root of the problem.” Bobby didn’t bother chiding himself for poor word choice because Cas didn’t get it anyway. “Were you _thinking_ about anything…sexy?”

Cas hesitated. “I…I don’t understand—”

“Just tell me what you were thinking about,” Bobby interrupted irritably.

Judging by the way he immediately went wary and shifty, Bobby was about to hear something he didn’t _want_ to hear. And yep, he confirmed it quickly after. “I was…thinking about when Dean was here last. When he…came upstairs.”

Bobby nodded, rubbing his forehead. “Right. And…were you doing _anything_ while you were—wait.” He looked back up, suddenly suspicious. “Cas, were you just _thinkin’_ about it, or were you doing that angel-memory thing? Where you re-live what was going on in the past?”

Cas nodded.

Bobby huffed. “Well, there you go, numbnuts. If you _re-live_ bumpin’ uglies with Dean—”

“I didn’t bump anything of Dean’s, Bobby; Dean just stimulated my penis with his hand—”

“ _Yes, Cas, thank you_ ,” he snarled. “The _point_ is that, if you re-live it like that in your head, your body’s gonna be carried along for the ride—remember how anytime you think about some of the bad shit you got up to, you start cryin’ without realizin’ it?”

Cas nodded, seeming to understand.

“So, see? You’re fine. Just, the next time you decide to…think about that, just—you know, do it with your pants off and have some tissue nearby.” Bobby pursed his lips. “Though if you start messing up your sheets, I’m gonna make you go out and work to pay off the water bill,” he warned.

“Yes, Bobby,” Cas said. And then he earnestly added, “Thank you.”

Bobby rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Get back upstairs and go to bed.”


	17. Wingman

_Set during “Burnin’ for You”_

Bobby was really starting to become accustomed to opening his door and finding Jody on his doorstep. More than just accustomed to it—he liked it. Didn’t matter that she was only bringing over cases or coming to asking about something weird—the fact was that she was showin’ up more and more often.

“I didn’t have time to wrap it,” she said dryly as greeting, holding up a dark, rather ominous-looking box. “But we found this at a drug raid early this morning, and I thought it might be a little more dangerous than your average cat cookie jar holding a cocaine stash.”

Bobby looked more closely at the wooden box, and the white sigils carved and painted on it told him all he needed to know. “Well, you’d be right—that is definitely a curse box.”

“Then I am more than happy to ‘lose’ this piece of evidence,” she said firmly, quickly passing it along to Bobby. “Nor do I want to know what that thing has in it, if you decide to open it.”

“Don’t worry—we’ll be keepin’ it closed,” Bobby answered, turning and walking into the house, Jody following him as he went and shutting the door behind her. “You usually don’t wanna find out what’s in a curse box, because it got put in there for a reason—the reason being it shouldn’t be out here in the world.”

She followed him into the kitchen, saying hi to Sam and Dean, who were just standing up from breakfast, and Bobby set the curse box down on the edge of the table, pushing aside his empty plate from breakfast as he did. “You already eat breakfast?” Bobby asked her.

“Yeah, I grabbed something on my way over here,” Jody answered. “Thanks, though.”

Sam and Dean were already coming around behind Bobby to get a look at the box. “Doesn’t look that heavily warded,” Dean remarked.

“So they either did a bad job of confining whatever’s in here or it’s just some low-level object,” Sam continued.

“I’ll take see if it has any specific wards on it, and then I’ll put it out with all the rest of my cursed crap this afternoon,” Bobby said before turning and snapping his fingers at Cas. “Hey—clean all that up, would you?” He waved his hand at the messy table before turning back to Jody. “Who was it you took this from, anyway?” he asked.

“Just your average crackhead,” Jody shrugged. “He didn’t seem too concerned about any of his possessions.”

“Maybe he just stole it from somebody,” Bobby suggested. “May’ve been gearin’ up to open it and sell whatever was in it.”

“Maybe. I don’t think he would’ve had much luck with whatever was in there, if what you say is true,” Jody replied.

“Doubtful,” Bobby said wryly. “Either way, we got it now, so…no worries.”

Jody smiled. “Thanks, then.”

Bobby scratched at the back of his neck, cutting his eyes to the side, before looking back up at her. “So, uh—how have things been with—”

“Bobby, you didn’t finish your fiber supplement.”

Cas was standing next to him, holding Bobby’s three-quarter-full glass of orange juice, looking very serious. Bobby’s spine had gone rigid and he couldn’t seem to talk. When he didn’t respond, Cas just kept talking. “Your body has acclimated to the regimen, Bobby—remember what happened the last time you skipped—”

“ _Cas_ ,” Bobby ground out, painfully aware of both the boys behind him and their stifled laughter, “I don’t need it.”

“Your health is important, though—at your age especially, you shouldn’t—”

“Cas!”

There was a long-suffering sigh. “Did you at least take your multi-vitamin?”

“ _Cas!_ ” he hollered, whirling on him. “Would you just get _out_ of here?!”

Cas jumped, looking alarmed and distressed, but did as he was told, quickly setting the orange juice on the counter and running outside like a dumbass. Bobby turned back to Jody, his neck and face horribly hot, and it got worse when he saw that, while she was doing a marvelous job of restraining her laughter (unlike two great big jackasses he could mention), she was still doing just that—restraining her laughter.

“Thanks for the curse box,” he managed. “I’ll—see you later.”

“No problem, Bobby,” she said lightly, and then, because Bobby still couldn’t seem to move, she turned and showed herself out.

Once the door shut, Sam and Dean didn’t bother holding it in anymore. Bobby just growled impotently at them both as they just sat there and _laughed_ , both of them hunched over and leaning on the kitchen table as they guffawed.

“ _Cas!_ ” he roared. “Get your ass back in here!”

Cas quickly re-entered the house, looking distressed. “Get the shovel—you’re diggin’ a hole, you little shit,” Bobby snarled.

The distress was quickly supplanted by outraged confusion. “Why?” Cas demanded. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Oh, yes you did,” Bobby spat. “Now _get out there_ or I’ll just _beat_ your ass with that shovel!”

Cas’s chin jutted as he stood mutinously in the doorway for a few seconds, but he turned and went anyway, walking stiffly but obediently getting the shovel as he was told. Once he was gone, Bobby saw Dean smirking at him, still laughing.

“Well? You gonna finish your Metamuce, grandpa?” he sniggered.

Bobby gave him a look that would shrivel a scorpion. “You wanna dig a hole with him?” he growled, and then grabbed the glass of orange juice and poured it down the drain. Then he slammed the glass back on the counter, gathered up the curse box and what was left of his wounded dignity, and marched out of the room.


	18. Journeyman

_Set during “Burnin’ for You,” after “Sorrow”_

Bobby couldn’t believe it.

It was gettin’ close to three years since Cas’s Purgatory-binge; he’d all but disappeared from the media, all the deaths and such were old news, and militant right-wing evangelists or militant left-wing atheists were really the only people who still talked about the brief reign of the New God, and only then just to support whatever arguments for or against religion that they favored. It was just that nobody seemed to care anymore.

Bobby had been testin’ the waters for the past year or so. He’d tell Cas to stop shavin’ for a week or so, and then dress him up in a hat and coat and sunglasses and then take him out with him to run a few errands. When nobody seemed to notice him, then Bobby had start letting him talk during their trips, to order dinner or pay at the checkout. And eventually, arming him with a cell phone to use if something happened and telling him that if there was the slightest hint that somebody recognized him that he was to haul ass back home, Bobby started letting him go out by himself.

And nothing happened.

But even with Cas pretty much under house arrest, he hadn’t been idle. And no, that didn’t just mean all the chores around the place that Bobby made him do. As soon as he’d been back on his feet after Dean had pulled him out of the Matrix, Bobby started giving him a crash course in human-style hunting. That meant learning how to handle guns, knives, the way to interview a witness (and the difference between _interviewing_ and _interrogating_ , the dumb shit)—all that sort of crap that he’d need if he was going to start working the jobs like all the rest of the poor saps in their line of work.

After about three years, Bobby figured that it was time to let him—well, let him test his wings.

And he _still_ couldn’t believe what had happened.

It hadn’t been like Bobby had planned to start takin’ Cas out. There was no set schedule, and anyway, Cas still wasn’t much hand with a gun; he preferred blades, knives and axes and such, but those weren’t always an option for the beasties they fought. Nor had he quite gotten the hang of talking to people without sounding like Rain Man at least half the time. And most importantly, Bobby had never taken him out for an extended trip away from Sioux Falls, and he didn’t know if he’d be recognized.

So when the string of mysterious deaths in Missouri caught Bobby’s eye, and when all his usual go-to hunters in the field were already workin’ their own gigs, he figured he’d take it himself. And spur of the moment, when he saw Cas wander into the room from where he’d been outside mowing the lawn, all scruffy and ridiculous-looking with his shaggy hair and beard and wearing one of Bobby’s caps, he just up and decided that it was time for the little mooch to start earning his keep for real.

Cas had seemed totally impassive to Bobby when he’d first met him—his face had always been so flat and expressionless. But the longer Bobby knew Cas, the better he’d been able to read him; it was always a surprise these days to hear other people describe him as deadpan and emotionless when Bobby could read him like a book. So he supposed that nobody else would have noticed that Cas had been all but bouncing in his seat with nervous energy on the trip over. Bobby had told him to cool his jets—just ‘cause he was goin’ out on a hunt didn’t mean he was gonna be out causin’ any trouble. No, Bobby just wanted him to ease into field work and to be his backup on the job—two were always better than one on a hunt. Bobby would go out and question witnesses and visit the cops or whatever; Cas was still on research duty, and he wasn’t to leave the motel room without permission.

The string of deaths was tied to an old house. Built in the 1800s, it’d had a bunch of different owners with nothing to report and a thoroughly boring history. Only lately, when it had been slated for demolition, had things started to get ugly. The current owner had inherited it and wanted it torn down to sell the lot, as it was in the middle of an urban renewal project that had sent the value up. Unfortunately, every work crew that had gone near it started having all sorts of freak accidents, equipment malfunctions and the like, and it always ended with someone on the crew dyin’.

It seemed the house was fighting back, but Bobby couldn’t for the life of him figure out what it could be. No one had ever died in it, none of the owners had ever reported any complaints about it, and there was no record of any funny business that Bobby could find. The closest thing they had to a lead was an obit that Cas had found for the original owner. Josiah Franks had suffered what could be considered a violent death—he’d been trampled by a runaway horse and since he’d been quite old at the time, he hadn’t survived—but it had been an accident, there was no one to blame, and the old man had been cremated. Other than that, the house was clean—there was no reason that Bobby could see that something supernatural would want to keep it from being torn down.

Well, since a day’s worth of askin’ around and the usual research hadn’t gotten them anywhere, Bobby had figured it was time to go have a look at the house itself. Goin’ to confront a monster was when you wanted backup, so he’d put the angel in his pocket for this one. They’d snuck out to the house in the dark of night; the place was boarded up and empty, the big shadows of the demolition equipment sitting silently the lawn, where they’d been left after the foreman had been killed by a rampaging backhoe a few days ago.

They’d forced the back door and slipped in. Bobby was ready with rock salt and holy water and an EMF detector and had just started his sweep when Cas abruptly said, “There.”

Bobby turned sharply—to find Cas staring at the wall.

“What?” he asked.

Cas looked up. “There,” he repeated. “There’s something behind this wall—some remains, I suspect—that is tying a spirit to the house.”

Bobby stared. “Just how the hell do you know that?” he demanded.

Cas’s brows furrowed a little. “I can see it.”

“See _what_?” Bobby had finally asked after just gawping at him for a minute.

He pointed to the wall. “There are traces of spiritual energy there.” He was starting to fidget under Bobby’s incredulous look. “I…can’t see the astral plane as clearly as I could when I was still an angel,” he said haltingly, “but I haven’t gone completely blind.”

“Okay, lemme get this straight,” Bobby said after closing his mouth. “Are you tellin’ me that all this time you could _see ghosts_? And you never thought to _tell_ anyone about this?!”

Cas fussed with the hem of his jacket. “I—I haven’t had the opportunity to see a ghost since…before now. I knew I could still see shades of the astral plane…but I didn’t know I could still see spirits.”

Bobby just looked at him a moment longer, before he just snorted in wry amusement. “Well, all right then—guess you can. So what’re we dealin’ with here, then?” he asked.

“There is something behind this wall,” Cas repeated, sounding more relieved and surer of himself now that he knew that Bobby wasn’t mad. “There is a spirit presence throughout the house, but whatever is behind it is its anchor.”

Since that was all Cas’s ghost-detector could see, there was nothing for it but to bust down the wall. This was a solid old place, Bobby reflected as he used a pry bar to crack through the lathe and plaster—none of that cheap drywall here. He finally broke through, and peered in, and—

“Well—I’ll be damned.”

There, speckling the old wooden floor on the inside of the wall, was an old bloodstain.

Bobby looked up. “You weren’t full o’ shit after all—good job, boy,” he said.

Cas blinked and then started looking self-conscious—but then his face went hard as his gaze zeroed in on a place behind Bobby’s head. “Bobby,” he said lowly, his breath frosting in the suddenly chilly air, “you need to burn that immediately.” Before Bobby had a chance to say a word, Cas very sharply said, “What do you want?”

Bobby whipped around, his gun at the ready—but there was no one there.

Cas didn’t seem to know that; he had his own shotgun carefully braced like Bobby had taught him and was pointing it at nothing. “Bobby, burn it,” he ordered, and then said to the air, “You have no place here— _don’t!_ ” And just as Bobby went tense as he felt the sudden pressure of invisible hands, ready to be thrown, Cas barked out a few unfamiliar syllables and it let go.

Well, Bobby wasn’t about to waste time holdin’ his dick—he yanked the salt and the lighter fluid out of his pocket, poured ‘em both over the bloodstain, and lit ‘em up.

And he looked up just in time to see a sudden silhouette of fire burn the air in the doorway where Cas had been pointing his gun, there was a howl of rage and pain, and Bobby and Cas both ducked against the hail of debris as the wall and the ceilings cracked and showered them with chips of plaster—and then it was gone.

Bobby coughed, shaking dust off of his cap and his shoulders and scrubbing it out of his beard, before looking up at Cas. “Okay—what the hell was that—you could see _him_ on the astral plane, too?” he asked.

Cas nodded. “It was Franks—the original owner. He didn’t seem to want his house destroyed.”

Bobby just looked at him a moment longer, bemused, before he chuckled, heaving himself to his feet and clapping Cas on the shoulder. “Well, that’s about the damnedest thing I ever saw—you have any idea how long it would have taken me by myself to figure out what was goin’ on here?” he asked him. “Not to mention I’d have been tossed around here like a ragdoll—what’d you say to him, anyway?”

Cas looked mildly embarrassed. “It was an Enochian spell. I…wasn’t sure it would work, now that I’m not an angel,” he admitted.

Bobby couldn’t help but snort. “Well, I’ll say it did. So—five deaths over the space of two weeks, and you solve it in five minutes,” he summed up to Cas, who was looking seriously at him. “I’d say that’s a hell of a good job for your first hunt.”

Cas blinked up at him before looking away, and Bobby couldn’t quite tell in this low light, but if he wasn’t mistaken, the angel had just _blushed_ a little. He couldn’t help but laugh outright at that.

“Well, come on, then,” he said. “Let’s put out this fire,” he said pointing to the guttering flames inside the wall, “and then get out of here before somebody sees us and calls the cops. But I’ll tell you now,” he added, pausing to look at Cas, “even if you never get all that good with a gun, with bein’ able to spot ghosts like you can, I’d say that you still have the makin’s of one damn fine hunter.”

There was no mistaking it now—Cas was _preening_ under the praise. Bobby just laughed again, patting his shoulder once more before smothering the fire with some of the debris old Franks had dumped on them.

“Come on, Cas,” he said, jerking his head for Cas to follow him as he headed out the door. “I’m buyin’ you a beer—for a job well done.”


	19. Home Economics

_Set during “Burnin’ for You”_

Dean hadn’t been all that enthusiastic about returning to Bobby’s yet—it’d barely been three weeks since they’d last been there, after all, and as a result, barely three weeks since…he and Cas had…he just didn’t want to go back yet, dammit. He wanted to be out on the road, where he could think about _other_ things that didn’t involve being in Cas’s bed and friggin’—friggin’ reaching down his _pants_ to grab his dick. Jesus _Christ_ —he still couldn’t believe he’d done that. But it was all Cas’s fault in the first place! The little bastard just wouldn’t—wouldn’t fucking _get off_! So what was Dean supposed to do, just sit there and rub him through his shorts until he chafed him raw? Like hell he was gonna do that—that was all kinds of mean. Though no less than Cas _deserved_ , the way he’d attacked Dean the second he’d just squeezed his eyes shut and done it.

He suppressed the urge to growl as he pulled into Bobby’s garage; couldn’t do that. Not with Sam sitting right there. He’d already been way too pushy and nosy when Dean had hemmed and hawed about going back in the first place. But there’d been no new jobs, and the case they’d just worked had been barely a hundred miles from Sioux Falls. Sam had pointed out it was better they head to home base and wait for a job rather than just sleep in the car or hole up in a motel and burn valuable credit cards. Well, what did he know, the bitch?

After cutting the engine, he heaved himself out of the car and made his way to the trunk, unlocking it and making it a point to only take the lighter bags because Sam deserved it. He paid no attention to the bitchface he knew he was getting once Sam hefted the two bags full of weapons out, because he wasn’t interested. He hadn’t wanted to stop by here, goddammit. So Sam could just deal.

A quick twist to the doorknob revealed that the door was unlocked, so he just waltzed in, contemplating shutting it behind him and locking it before Sam could get inside, but decided not to. Instead, he just left it open and called out, “Only us, Bobby.”

And he cringed when Bobby didn’t answer; instead the hopeful, near- _rapturous_ reply of, “Dean?” came from the living room.

_Son of a_ bitch _._

“Yeah,” he muttered, much less enthusiastic now.

“Bobby’s in the basement; he’ll be up in a minute,” Cas continued, and Dean just could not take that _serenity_ that was in his voice because he fucking knew _why_ he was all Zen.

Dean jumped when Sam suddenly spoke behind him. “Hey, Cas,” he called, and Dean scowled at nothing when Sam swept by him, dropping his bags by the kitchen table as he did. Dean decided to avoid the living room while he could, slouching over to the fridge instead to go grab a beer while Sam just marched right in to see Cas. Well, he could do that all he wanted.

He wasn’t gonna bother getting Sam a beer, ‘cause he was still a bitch so Dean wasn’t gonna wait on him, but he paused halfway across the room at the sight of a big plate full of cookies on the kitchen table. Looked like oatmeal, all lumpy and obviously homemade. Dean grabbed one and bit it in half. Oh, sweet—some of them looked like they had raisins, but the one he’d grabbed was oatmeal chocolate chip. Awesome. He grabbed three more of the chocolate ones; they were damn tasty, and there was no reason to let ‘em go to waste.

“Oh,” Sam suddenly said from the other room, and Dean frowned at his tone as he crossed the floor to the fridge. “Um…that looks nice,” he continued.

“Thank you,” Cas replied benignly. “I’m almost finished.”

“Uh…great. Um…when’d you start?” Sam asked.

“Two weeks ago.”

“No, I meant…when’d you start, uh…doing this in general.”

“Oh—over a year ago.”

“Are you _kidding_?”

Dammit, those two were doing this on purpose. Irritably, Dean twisted the top of his beer off and bunted the fridge closed with his hip, finally nutting up and stumping into the living room to see what the hell those two were talking about.

He stopped short in the doorway when he spotted Cas on the couch, his eyes wide, his beer and his cookies forgotten.

There he was, just sitting there, and Dean barely noticed that he was gazing all tenderly at him right in front of _Sam_. No, all Dean really saw was the afghan draped across his lap—dark blue, with simple, thin yellow stripe on both ends—and the fact that Cas was holding up one corner. Because he was fucking _knitting_ it.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas said dreamily, snapping him out of his daze for a moment.

But only enough to get him talking. “You—you _knit_?” he demanded, waving a hand at the nearly-finished afghan.

Cas blinked at him. “No,” he replied. “I tried knitting—I didn’t like it very much. The needles were awkward. This is crocheting.”

“Okay, fine, it’s _crocheting_ —when the hell did you start _crocheting_?!” he asked incredulously.

“Early last year.”

“ _Why?_ ”

“Bobby suggested it,” Cas replied; his fingers were still moving rapidly, yellow yarn spinning out of the little bundle next to him.

“That’s a stretch.”

All three of them looked over in the direction of Bobby’s voice as he finally came up from the basement, a stack of books in his arms. “All I said was he should get a damn hobby like knitting—next thing I know, I’ve got a dozen blankets I don’t know what to do with.”

“A _dozen_?” Dean repeated, glancing around the room. He suddenly realized that Bobby _did_ seem to have a lot of afghans…and always seemed to have a new one (or five) every time when they stopped by…

Bobby snorted. “He churns out at least one a month these days. At this rate, I’m gonna have to send some of the older ones down to Goodwill. Only have so many beds and couches to put ‘em on. I’ve also got some dishcloths, scarves, and a pretty psychedelic pair of socks around here, if you’re interested.”

“I’d like to try making a sweater next,” Cas said almost absently, his fingers still flying.

“A _sweater_?!” Dean was seriously having trouble processing all of this, and while Sam was doing a better job of not looking completely flabbergasted, Dean could tell he was pretty weirded out by the idea of an Angel of the Lord _knitting sweaters_ , too.

Bobby just shrugged as he dropped his books on his desk. “Don’t see why he shouldn’t—you know he’s cold all the time. Just don’t make ‘em with one those funky patterns from when you were first learnin’,” he said to Cas, who looked up from his yarn with a furrowed brow. Bobby glanced back at Sam and Dean. “Had to teach that boy the meaning of ‘color coordination’,” he said dryly.

“It made no sense to just stop using the skein before I was finished, Bobby,” Cas insisted, a somewhat stubborn note in his voice, which told Dean that he _still_ thought it made no sense.

“And that’s why those hodge-podge blankets are in _your_ room,” Bobby retorted.

“Bobby,” Dean finally interrupted. “Why knit— _crocheting?_ ” Dean corrected himself, glaring sourly at Cas when he gave him that pointed look.

Bobby shrugged. “Keeps him busy. Idle hands, all that crap.” He snorted. “I’m just glad I didn’t suggest hand-painted figurines or macramé.”

Sam seemed to have recovered from all the weirdness and was now just looking amused by the whole situation. “You’re, ah, just all kinds of domestic, aren’t you, Cas?” he said.

“Yep,” Bobby answered for him. “Between his blankets and his baking, he’s just a regular Martha Stewart.”

_Baking?!_ Dean looked down at the cookies in his hand, the chocolate chips melting slightly and leaving little dark smears on his fingers, and looked back up just in time to see Cas looking at him with big eyes. “Do you like the cookies, Dean?” he asked hopefully.

Dean coughed, uncomfortable. “Yeah,” he grunted. “They’re real good.” ‘Cause they were, goddammit.

“I like them with raisins, but Bobby wanted me to make some with chocolate too.”

“You know, Cas,” Sam chimed in, “you should make some with chocolate and throw in some toasted coconut and macadamia nuts.” Cas looked up at him. “We had some like that at this funny little Italian restaurant in Oklahoma,” Sam continued casually. “Dean was crazy about ‘em.”

“Oh—yes, I can make some like that,” Cas said, sounding almost excited. “I’ll make them tomorrow.”

Sam was such a _bitch_.


	20. Unmentionables

_Set during “Burnin’ for You”_

Despite all the trouble he’d put him through, Bobby was ready to admit that there were advantages of having Cas living with him.

The main thing he noticed was not just how much more work he was getting done, but how much more _relaxing_ he was gettin’ to do. He didn’t have to worry about dusting his books or doing his laundry or things like that because Cas did it—he could focus on manning the phones and doin’ research when he needed to while Cas took care of other things (including making sure he got fed, which was doing amazing things for his temperament, he had to say). And today was no different—he’d decided to just take the day for himself, and so was sitting up in the kitchen reading; his only duty for today was manning the phones.

And speak of the devil…

He put his book down when one of them started ringing, and a quick check revealed that there was a chance the call might not be trouble—it was his personal line. Heaving himself to his feet, he picked it up off the hook.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Bobby.”

He straightened up a little. “Oh—hey, Jody. How’re you?”

“Just doin’ fine—am just cruisin’ around, and I’m only a mile or two from your place, so I was wondering if you were busy or anything.”

“Actually, I’m not busy at all—why, you got somethin’ for me to look at?”

“Nope—I’m just in the area, and thought maybe I could stop by.”

“Oh! That—yeah, I’d like that. I’m all by myself—well, Cas is here, but he’s got chores, so—it’s _kind of_ like being by myself—if that’s okay—I mean, if you still wanted to—”

“Then I’ll see you in a few minutes,” Jody said, sounding amused, saving Bobby further embarrassment by cutting off his babbling.

“Great—uh, see you then.”

Bobby didn’t got back to his book and instead compulsively tidied up the already-clean kitchen—Cas had already been through here, obviously. But he didn’t have to pretend to clean up for long, because just as Jody promised, she was knocking on his door in under five minutes.

“Probably can’t be helpin’ my reputation in town, havin’ your car out front like that,” Bobby joked as he closed the door behind her. “I’m already the town drunk; now they’ll be sayin’ I’m a troublemaker, too.”

“Well, that is kind of my cover story if anybody spots me taking a break over here,” she retorted, shrugging out of her jacket and hanging it up on the coat rack. “Nothin’ to see here, folks, just a routine investigation of one of the usual suspects.” Her eyes twinkled at him.

“Or people might think you’re dealin’ in the same kind of crazy I do.”

She smirked. “Well, they wouldn’t be entirely wrong, now, would they?” she asked. “You drag me into your nonsense way more often than a respectable sheriff should be, you know, Bobby.”

Bobby had the good sense to look vaguely ashamed. “Yeah, I know. So—um, sit?” He gestured towards the couch.

She took him up on the offer, settling down on one end and giving him a very warm smile. “Can I have a beer?” she asked.

“I dunno—can you?” Bobby asked smartly, giving her a knowing look. “Should a respectable sheriff be drinkin’ and then drivin’?”

“I think one beer will be fine—especially if I stay a while and let it wear off,” she replied simply.

Bobby opened his mouth, but then snapped it closed again. “Can’t argue with that logic,” he finally said, and then went back into the kitchen to grab a beer—no, _two_ beers. He was annoyed to find that all he had was canned— _yeah, that’s classy_ —but Jody said nothing when he handed her one. Bobby contemplated the other end of the couch, sitting there empty and inviting right next to her, but instead retreated to the safety of the desk. He leaned backwards against it, popping open his can and raising it a little in her direction.

“Haven’t heard from you in a while; how are things at the old homestead?” she asked after a sip.

“Same as ever—Sam n’ Dean are off lookin’ for trouble in West Virginia, and I’m stayin’ here, mannin’ the phones and making sure Dumbass doesn’t do something stupid. You know—the usual,” he shrugged.

She chuckled. “Such a thrilling life you lead, Bobby.” Her eyes warmed a little. “You really should get out more—not for ghosts and all that crap, I mean. Should go do something fun.”

“Yeah. I should,” he mumbled into his can, eyeing the end of the couch again. He really did want to sit…and it was right there. There was a good enough distance between ‘em, right? He could—

A creak on the staircase was all the warning he had before Cas came marching into view, his laundry basket in his hands. He blinked to see Jody sitting there, but just said “Hello, Sheriff,” and then plopped himself down on the couch right where Bobby had been thinking about sitting and setting his basket in the empty spot next to him.

_Dammit._

Jody looked a little nonplussed. “Uh—hey, Castiel—Cas,” she amended, looking at the jumble of clothes in the basket next to her. “Folding?”

He glanced up. “It’s mending day,” he answered very seriously. “Sam, Dean, and Bobby are very rough on their clothes.”

“Ah—well, mend away,” Jody said, nodding and looking a little amused.

Harrumphing to cover his annoyance, Bobby pulled his chair around and sat next to the desk like that’s what he’d been plannin’ to do all along. Cas’s sewing kit had been sitting inside the basket; he took it out and set it down on his lap, opening it up and selecting a threaded needle from his pincushion before pulling out an enormous flannel shirt that could only belong to Sam. He inspected it gravely before locating a rip under one arm and settling down to patch it up.

Bobby took a larger drink of his beer than necessary; _Cas really does have knack for killin’ conversation_ , he thought grouchily in the ensuing silence, Cas absorbed in his mending and Jody watching him—no, she’d turned to Bobby, her eyes still warm, and dammit, he felt his face heating up, of all the stupid shit. What was he, fifteen? He cleared his throat—

“Do you have a new case for us, Sheriff?” Cas asked, his needle flying.

Bobby glared at him, but he didn’t notice.

“Nope,” Jody said easily. “Just taking a little mid-afternoon break in my own weekend chores.” She gave Bobby a little sideways glance. “Thought I’d drop in and make sure you were still taking good care of Bobby.”

“I’m doing my best,” Cas said, all earnestness, and Bobby scowled at him when Jody gave a delicate little snort. The tear in Sam’s shirt wasn’t big, and Cas was fast; he’d finished mending it quick as a whip and deftly tied off and snipped the thread, folding the shirt neatly and setting it on the end table next to him before picking up a sock from the pile.

Jody looked over at Bobby with a half-grin. “Handy little thing to have around the house, isn’t he?” she asked.

Bobby snorted. “Most of the time—‘cept when he’s exposin’ himself and gettin’ me in trouble with the law,” he added, taking a certain amount of pleasure in Cas’s furrowed eyebrows as he looked up from darning the sock.

“I didn’t do that again,” he said.

Bobby just made a rude noise, and Jody said, “Don’t worry, Cas—I used to get plenty of calls on Bobby before you lived here.”

She smirked in his direction, and Bobby pulled a face back at her and said, “Well, see if I take care of any funny evidence for you again.”

Jody raised her eyebrows. “Oh, so, you think I’m not capable of covering up the occasional monster myself?” she challenged, her eyes bright.

“Oh, no—I think you can handle just about anything,” Bobby informed her, and her eyebrow went up in speculation. Bobby felt his cheeks get hot again but this time he didn’t look away, not even when he felt the corner of his mouth turning up, and— _ha_ , she looked away first. To his delight, he saw that _her_ cheeks were a little red now, and she bit her lip and looked to the side—

Just in time to see Cas hold up and scrutinize the huge, greying pair of underwear that could only be Bobby’s own right before he flipped them around, spotting the very large and obvious hole right in the back.

Bobby choked. He just stared in horror as Cas just kept going about his business, poking his finger through the hole and then merrily sewing up his friggin’ _underwear_ right there next to Jody, and she was looking, and then she turned back to him and he could see that she was on the verge of laughing— _again_ —

“Say, Cas?” she suddenly said, her voice trembling only a little. “Pass me a needle and thread.”

Cas looked up, Bobby’s underwear still in his hands.

“Lemme give you a hand with that; two people working on all of this will make it go by twice as fast,” she said, holding out her hand.

“All right—thank you, Sheriff,” Cas answered, tying off his thread, cutting it, and folding Bobby’s underwear before he did so. And then the two of them were off, Jody cutting her eyes up once so she could _smirk_ at Bobby, pulling out a pair of jeans and starting up while Cas moved on to a pair of shorts.

Bobby buried his red face in one hand. _Death? Don’t suppose it’d be at all possible for you to just, you know, take me now, would it? Yeah, I didn’t think so, you old bastard._

_Balls._


	21. Easy Rhythm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is a direct continuation of "[Easy on My Soul](http://archiveofourown.org/works/969820/chapters/1904752)." Drunk sex is one thing—doing it while sober is quite another.

_Set after “Easy on My Soul”_

The more Dean thought about it, the more he realized that Bobby needed to re-shingle his roof. The number of water stains that were on his ceilings was ridiculous, and especially so upstairs. Dean counted five in this room alone. They were ugly—all brown and shit. Looked like Lionel Richie got a feeling and _pissed_ on the ceiling. If he didn’t want to spring for a new roof, the least Bobby could do was get Cas to paint over the ceilings—that’d go a long way to makin’ things look better.

Dean’s fist tightened and he threw his arm over his eyes. Fuck. That wasn’t working. That wasn’t working _at all_. Subject had come back around to Cas anyway, so he was right back to—to being horribly, painfully aware that Cas was—oh, _fuck_ —

He had not wanted to come up here, but he’d done it anyway, and yeah, they’d started making out. And _yes_ , Cas had gotten horny and Dean had—had jerked him off. But once Cas was done, he’d given him that big-eyed look, and his hand had stroked Dean’s belly, and he’d known what Cas had wanted to do.

And Dean _so_ hadn’t wanted to let him.

When he’d woken up the morning after that _horrible_ hunt when they hadn’t put down the ghost in time to save that kid, he’d not really known where he was at first. Truth be told, he’d thought he was in a motel simply because he was sleepin’ in a bed and not on a couch. He’d been a little headachy, too, from all of the drinkin’ he’d done the night before. And then he’d rolled over and thrown his arm out to grab a pillow—and had grabbed Cas instead.

It had all come flooding back into him the second he did that, and he’d been punched in the face by the appalling truth—that he’d let Cas touch his dick. More than touch his dick, though—he’d let Cas jerk him off. _And he’d liked it._

After bolting immediately and hiding in the other bedroom for a few hours, feeling dirty and violated and like what he guessed women felt like when they woke up to some pervert who’d conned them into having _just a few more_ down at the bar, he’d gotten dressed and snuck outside to get the car. He’d driven straight into town and spent the whole day out of the house, struggling _not_ to remember what had happened the previous night. And what had happened the previous night? He’d slept with Cas.

He didn’t care that it was just some crappy handjob—he’d stayed the night. He didn’t fucking _do that_. And he sure as fuck didn’t let Cas get his hand down his pants, either!

Except how he had.

He’d brooded on it for weeks, including occasionally dreaming up inventive ways to kill Cas and stash his body, because God knew the little bastard deserved it for taking advantage of him while he was drunk like that. But in the end, he’d wound up in Cas’s room again, because that’s _always_ how it went, because Cas was a fucking _bitch_. Didn’t matter what it was—Cas knew that if the starry eyes weren’t working, then he could just turn on the sad basset look and eventually, Dean would cave and slink upstairs and give him some action.

Only problem was now Cas wanted to give _Dean_ action. And that was exactly what he was doing.

All he was doing right now was rub and squeeze Dean’s hard-on through his shorts, and it was horrible. It didn’t help that Cas really was terrible at this and was kind of floundering and _trying_ to do it right and failing miserably. Jesus—no wonder he always went off so easily when Dean gave him a hand. His _own_ hand was the crappiest lay _ever_. But that wasn’t the real problem—the real problem was that Dean was letting a guy touch his goods.

And that was a huge fucking problem.

Dean sucked in a breath and went even more rigid than he already was when Cas let him go so he could slide his hand into his shorts, and he refused to make any noise when Cas’s warm hand curled around his cock, his grip comfortably tight. Because of how Dean had his arm, Cas couldn’t really kiss his neck, so all he was doing was fucking _fondling_ him. But Cas wasn’t content with that, because then Dean felt lips against his bare chest, kissing right on his sternum, and then brushing over on his ribs. Cas’s fist was moving now, just a simple jerk that was boring and hardly worth _anything_ , and he was rubbing his face against Dean where his heart was thumping painfully—but sure as hell not because he was _enjoying_ this. Oh, fuck no. He was _not_ enjoying this. It felt _okay_ , he supposed, but—

Goddammit, _Cas was a man_!

There had been times in the past where he could try to concentrate on other stuff to distract him from the fact that Cas was a dude, but no, that’s all he could think about right now as Cas’s hand slowly worked him. He wasn’t just getting a hand—he was getting a _man_ -hand. He trembled again, struggling to _not_ think about it, but no— _nothing_ could shake it. Cas’s hand was in his shorts. Cas’s hand was on his _dick_. He was getting a handjob from Cas.

From a _dude_.

“…Dean?”

Flinging his arm off of his eyes, he grit his teeth and snapped his eyes open, knowing _exactly_ why Cas just pitifully said his name.

“Cas—just—” He reached down and grabbed Cas’s wrist, pulling his hand _out_ of his shorts. Cas let him go—specifically, he let his drooping prick go.

Fuck everything, he hadn’t even been able to keep it up. Well, mark Cas down as _another_ unpleasant first for him in the sack. Not even finding out at the most awkward moment possible that Isabelle Freemont had dentures had made him wilt (mostly because she was still a _she_ , she still had a fabulous body, and she’d quickly shown him that yes, all of the jokes they made about dentures and blowjobs were actually true).

He could barely meet Cas’s eyes, but it didn’t take long for him to see how _pathetic_ he looked, all sad and miserable and confused like he didn’t know what he was doing wrong. Dean could tell him _exactly_ what he was doing wrong: he had zero finesse, and a little spit might’ve been nice, and maybe he should stop going around being a _guy_. Yeah, that’d fix everything _right up_.

But he said none of that. In fact, before he could say anything, Cas spoke first. “Dean, I—am I—”

“It’s not you,” Dean said through clenched teeth, and he couldn’t believe he’d just said that line, especially when it totally _was_. “It’s—I can’t. Not now. Just—go to bed.”

He knew Cas was already dissolving into a puddle of misery, but he didn’t want to see that. He _couldn’t_ see that—not now. He just need to _leave_.

So he scooped up his shirt and pulled it on and zipped up his jeans before walking stiffly out the door, closing it behind him.

_Fuck._

* * *

_Six._ Six water stains now. Dean was definitely gonna have to talk to Bobby about it, because this was getting ridiculous.

No, what was ridiculous was the fact that he was up here in Cas’s bed and Cas had his hand down his shorts. _Again._

He’d had to avoid Cas for a full week after the last time he’d done anything with him, and had only relented to being around him again after he’d seen that, even a week later, Cas was still miserable and crushed and depressed because he hadn’t been able to get him off. It’d taken him almost a month to work up the nerve to go back upstairs again—but he hadn’t gone up to do _this_! He’d just gone up to—do the usual, dammit! But no, Cas had been handsy and obviously wanted to try again, and he’d guilted Dean into it and so here they were and it was awful.

It was awful because Cas was still sucky at this. He was going so fucking _slow_ and his grip was so fucking _loose_ —that was part of the problem and he knew it. If it _felt_ better, he’d have an easier time concentrating on the feel-good part and not the it’s-a-guy part!

He so couldn’t take another bout of Cas’s depression all because Dean had gone soft again. He could already tell it was gonna happen if things kept up at this rate. So he had to—had to make sure that _didn’t_ happen again.

Well. Only one way to do _that_. Time to take matters into his own hands—literally.

Throwing one arm over his eyes again, he grit his teeth and reached down, wrapping his fingers around Cas’s and making him squeeze a little tighter. Cas’s movements faltered when Dean grabbed him, but Dean didn’t let him do that—he just got his own hand situated a little better and started picking up the pace. Yeah—that’s all this was. This was just him jerking _himself_ off, and he just happened to be using two hands. Why not—he’d done it before. It was just a little private time, it wasn’t another dude doing it for him—no, this wasn’t him, this was _Sophie Daniels_. Yes, that’s what this was. He made his hand fit around Cas’s a little better and ignored how Cas’s hand wasn’t Sophie’s slim and dainty one and just remembered how she’d been the most virginal virgin he’d ever met, and though that wasn’t usually his bag, he’d gone for it because she’d been excited and really wanted him to be her first because he was that awesome. Yeah—she’d been so completely out of her depth and had no clue what she was doing—girl hadn’t even touched herself before, let alone _seen_ a dick outside of biology textbooks, so he’d had to show her, and show her he had. He’d shown her a lot of stuff, and more than just those six orgasms that had her screaming by the end of ‘em.

He just kept thinking about that and got both the hands on his dick moving faster, remembering how Sophie had shivered when she’d gotten her hands on his cock, and he’d told her it was okay and had had his hand around hers just like this, showin’ her how it was done, and she’d been nervous but she’d eventually gotten more sure and had sped up—yeah, like that—

The hand under his own was taking a little more initiative, but Dean refused to let go—no, he couldn’t do that, because it was all finally starting to build and if he let go he’d just be reminded that this _wasn’t_ Sophie Daniels, that this wasn’t a chick at _all_ —

That almost made him lose it, right there, but he shoved the thought down deep and rubbed the head of his cock with his thumb and made himself think of Tiffany Evans and her _huge_ tits and how she’d got down and her knees and pressed them together around his dick and let him fuck ‘em—

He grunted as he _finally_ came, thank _God_ , keeping his and Cas’s hand moving as he did, jerking himself furiously, panting as his legs twitched through the whole thing. He did his best to catch it, but he knew it’d gotten all over the inside of his shorts—he could feel it. But that didn’t matter—he didn’t care about loose spunk on his dick. What he cared about was Cas’s hand on his dick—he cared about _getting it off_.

Yanking both of their hands out of his shorts, he quickly rolled away, doing everything he could to not look at Cas. Furiously wiping his hand off on his shorts, he bent down and grabbed his jeans, yanking them on and standing up as fast as possible and locating his shirt, tugging that on as well. Then he all but ran for the door—but couldn’t help it, he turned around—

And there was Cas, still just lying in the middle of the bed, looking so overjoyed like he couldn’t believe what had just happened and like it was the greatest moment of his life and _was he seriously just sitting there with his hand covered in cooling jizz?!_

Yes, he was, and Dean _so_ could not look at that. He ran, making a beeline for the bathroom, his knees still a little shaky but the rest of him wound tighter than a clock.

Okay, fine. He’d gotten off. But, he thought as he washed his hands, he so hadn’t liked it.

* * *

Some part of Dean wondered if maybe it wasn’t for the best that Cas didn’t seem to have any interest in women (because he was way too busy being interested in _Dean_ ). The sheer amount of nut-butter he always splutted everywhere couldn’t be normal. If he’d been interested in chicks, he probably would’ve saddled Bobby with a whole herd of bastards by now (because as if he’d remember a condom).

However, it was only some part of him. The other part insisted that any little accidents of Cas’s would be much better than what was actually happening, because instead of putting all that spunk into pussy, he was instead putting it into _Dean’s hand_.

Wrinkling his nose a little, Dean scrubbed at his hand with the tissues that Dean had put on the night table while Cas just lay there like the big useless lump he was, looking dazed and dazzled like he always did after Dean was done with him. Why did that always have to be the end game? Dean had come to terms with the fact that some of this was…actually kind of nice. He always loved feeling a warm body writhing underneath him because he had the magic touch, and Cas never disappointed. And his sounds—seriously, Dean had never really encountered anyone who made sounds like he did, and he’d had never been _affected_ by anybody’s O-noises quite like he was with Cas’s. So the combination of that and the fact that he had to put in an effort to wring any at all out of him…yeah. He liked that.

And…admittedly, he kind of liked the way his stiffie was rubbing against Cas’s hip at the moment.

He wanted to get off—scratch that, he kind of needed to. He was hard, and it was kind of hurtin’ him right now. Granted, he wasn’t helping the situation much, rubbin’ on Cas like he was, but he didn’t want to _stop_. It didn’t matter that he was pretty much _humping_ against Cas, it felt good. But he wasn’t about to rub one out on Cas—no, that was _Cas’s_ M.O., and he could keep it. So he did stop, reluctantly pulling his hips away and contemplating just rolling onto his side and jerking off right here—

That’s when Cas’s hands were suddenly on his chest, pushing gently but insistently against him, making him roll over onto his back. Dean still had the wherewithal to look a little outraged, but he was mostly just alarmed by this—what the hell was Cas doing? If he thought he was just gonna climb on him and try for seconds, he had another thing coming—Dean would so knock his teeth down his throat if he did that, who cared if he was all up in his face with that _look_ —

Dean’s hips jerked when Cas suddenly just reached down and squeezed his cock through the front of his shorts, but he didn’t have time to think about _that_ or even be pissed that Cas hadn’t even _asked_ this time like he always did with those little tentative strokes on Dean’s belly—no, because then Cas just shoved his hand down the front of Dean’s shorts, and Dean nearly leapt right off the bed when Cas’s thumb pressed hard into the wet slit at the head of Dean’s cock— _fucking Christ, Cas!_

But then his fingers were wrapped tight around his dick and he was jerking him and jerking him _fast_ , his fist tight, and when Dean arched a little under the onslaught, Cas took advantage of it, tucking his face right up under Dean’s chin, and Dean could feel his hot breath on his throat and couldn’t help but moan a little when Cas’s mouth was where his breath was and dear _God_ , where the fuck had this suddenly come from?! He’d been all slow and unsure last time and now he was yanking his meat like there was no tomorrow, like he was _determined_ to make Dean come and make him come _now_ —

And holy hell, it was working. Dean’s hips were thrusting against Cas’s rapid motions, and he had his hand in Cas’s hair, just holding him where he was, and the heat in his belly was getting hotter and hotter—goddammit, this was—if he hadn’t already been so fucking horny, this wouldn’t be coming up on him so fast!

But it _was_ coming up on him fast, and his fingers flexed around Cas’s free arm as he panted, his eyes squeezed shut. Cas wasn’t stopping and hadn’t let up, just kept stroking hard and fast, and Dean was so close, it couldn’t have been more than a minute or two and he was already about to come—dear _God_ —

Cas’s tongue slowly lapped at his hammering pulse, and then he breathed it right there—“ _Dean…_ ”

Dean bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from making any noise as he came, and Cas just kept going through the whole thing with that same frantic pace and _sweet Jesus_ Dean could not take it, he _so_ could not take it because now his grip was hot and slick as he just kept _going_ —

It was desperation that made Dean flail his hand down and grab Cas to stop him because _fuck_ , that was starting to hurt. But he did stop when Dean made him, and he pulled his hand out of Dean’s shorts like he was supposed to. Dean let Cas go after that and did his best to push himself away before flopping backwards, making himself keep his eyes open because he didn’t want to accidentally fall asleep in here.

All he was doing was waiting for his heart to slow down. His eyes traced the darkest stain on the ceiling as he did his best to not think about the mess in his pants—dammit, Cas hadn’t even _tried_ to catch his load. No, he did worse than that—the little jerk had fucking used it as _lube_ , and now his junk was covered in his own spooge. Bastard. Yeah, Dean never made much of an effort to catch Cas’s, but that was different—Cas didn’t _care_ about getting that shit on him.

He risked a glance next to him where Cas was lying on his side facing him—yep, he was just sitting there _staring_ at him, that _look_ in full force— _shit_ , he was almost looking _grateful_ …

Dean could not handle any more of _that_. So he quickly flung the blankets off of himself and onto Cas and got out of bed, finding his clothes on the floor where he’d dropped them during their _session_ —Jesus, how many times was this now? He threw them on but didn’t bother zipping up his pants, because he was just gonna pull it all down again once he got to the bathroom to wash off. It felt so _nasty_ , too, he could feel it starting to dribble where it wasn’t being rubbed by his shorts…

Once he was in the bathroom and wetting a washcloth, he could finally really think about what had just happened—and he didn’t like it.

He’d gotten off. Again. Only this time, he hadn’t been thinkin’ of chicks and nice titty-fucks. Nope—that’d been _all Cas_. The prick had taken _notes_ , apparently, and was obviously gonna start doin’ his best to make it so that his handjobs weren’t just an unpleasant chore that Dean had to put up with, but something that Dean actively _liked_.

Dean huffed, throwing the washcloth down with a wet flump as he pulled his shorts and jeans back up and zipped them. Well, fine. Screw Cas, anyway. He wanted to get Dean off? He might as well—not like Dean was getting any anywhere else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've gotta at least give him credit for trying. ;)


	22. Creeper Gonna Creep

_Set between “Easy on My Soul” and “Can’t Get Enough”_

Despite being better at research in general, Sam did notice that Dean seemed to enjoy looking for new jobs a lot more than he did. As such, he didn’t bother tamping down the little bit of habitual resentment he felt because here he was, up here at the kitchen table with Bobby, going through the news and all kinds of reports and keeping as quiet as possible while Dean slept soundly on the couch in the living room.

It was only a little resentment, though—and it was only reflex anyway, for all the previous times that he was left drudging away on a case while Dean went off drinking or picking up chicks or just went to sleep or something. But Dean had done all of the driving last night and they’d gotten in probably around two or three, and then he’d been the first one up for breakfast at seven this morning. Sam had gotten a nap in the car—now it was Dean’s turn, he supposed. He just wished Dean had been considerate enough to go upstairs so he, Bobby, and Cas didn’t have to tip-toe around to not wake him up.

Cas had definitely been the one to do the most tip-toeing. He still had his chores to do, and apparently not even Dean napping could put him off—Bobby’s orders, after all, and he’d seen it enough times that know that when Bobby said frog, Cas jumped. He’d been flitting almost silently around the house, carrying loads of laundry upstairs and down, dusting where he could, taking out the empty beer bottles and setting them carefully into the bottom of the trashcan one by one. Sam occasionally wondered if maybe Bobby wasn’t being too hard on him, making him do everything around the house, but really, he wasn’t—Cas honestly didn’t care. Half the time, he actually seemed to enjoy all the cleaning he did, so it didn’t matter if it was a sort of ongoing punishment for his delusions of godhood in Bobby’s mind.

“Don’t bother with those right now,” Bobby grunted, and Sam glanced up to see Cas standing by the sink. “Ain’t no use tryin’ to be quiet doin’ the dishes, and you’ll just wake Dean up if you start clattering around up there.”

“All right,” Cas replied softly, and then drifted out of the kitchen, leaving the pile of dirty dishes where it was. Sam went back to his web search, saving the news stories that looked vaguely interesting.

“What do you think, Bobby—two men, both mid-twenties and in good shape, killed in the past two days. Bodies both found mutilated, looked like an animal did it, but they’re in the middle of a city. Sound like something with an appetite for Soylent Green?” Sam asked after a moment.

“I’d save it. Doubt they get many bears in apartment complexes,” Bobby agreed.

Sam snorted and saved that link in his folder of possible hits.

They both lapsed into silence and Sam continued to read the news. He was starting to scrape the bottom of the barrel now—just reports that had zero to do with their line of work. Celebrity gossip, random stories about politics, murders that were definitely the work of humans and not monsters…

“What the hell are you doin’?”

Bobby’s sharp tone snapped Sam out his contemplation of Rhianna’s nipple-slip and he jerked his head up. But Bobby’s question was not directed at him—he was looking out into the living room. Sam looked over and there was Cas, just blinking rapidly at Bobby from where he was sitting in a chair he’d pulled up next to the couch.

“You said not to do the dishes right now,” Cas began, sounding confused. “The last load of laundry is in the dryer, and I don’t have anything else to do—”

“I don’t mean that, you dumbass, I mean—get up here!” Bobby cut him off sharply. “You get away from him!”

Cas did as he was told, quietly coming into the kitchen, looking worried the whole way.

“Bobby, what—” Sam began.

Bobby ignored him. “Sit down,” he commanded, and Cas sat. “Now explain just why the hell you were sitting there watching Dean sleep.”

Cas seemed to shrink in on himself under the weight of their combined stares, Bobby’s peeved and Sam’s taken aback. In all honesty, Sam wanted the answer to that now, too, now that he knew just what Bobby had gotten mad about.

“I…” Cas licked his lips. “I was…” He kept glancing up at Sam, and then back to Bobby, squirming in his seat.

Bobby growled in annoyance. “You can talk in front of Sam. Spit it out, idjit.”

Cas continued to struggle with whatever inner battle he was engaged in for a few seconds before he finally started talking again. “I…love Dean, Bobby,” Cas said haltingly. “And I…just wanted to be near him.”

 _Dammit._ Sam shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Now _that_ was not something he’d wanted to hear about.

“Boy, there is a difference between being _near_ someone and just plopping down in a chair next to them and starin’ a hole through ‘em while they’re sleepin’—we call that _stalkin’_. What the hell were you thinkin’? What made you think that was—” Bobby stopped, and he narrowed his eyes at Cas, giving him a rather suspicious look. “You…haven’t been doin’ this before, have you? Sneakin’ around into Dean’s room, shit like that?”

Cas’s lack of an answer was all too telling.

“ _Dammit_ , Cas,” Bobby snarled.

Sam, meanwhile, was completely at a loss for words. He knew Cas and Dean were together, yeah, but—well, finding out that his brother was being _spied on_ while he slept was a little too much to take. Especially since the person doing the spying was _Cas_.

“How often do you _do_ this?” Bobby wanted to know.

“…not very. Only a few times,” Cas answered in a small voice. Before Sam even had time to process that new horror, he dropped a bigger bombshell. “But—but I…I find it…comforting. I would sometimes come to watch Dean and Sam when I was an angel.”

Sam’s jaw dropped. “ _What?_ ” he demanded.

“When I had…a moment, I would find you or Dean and simply watch you,” Cas said, looking uncomfortable in the face of Sam and Bobby’s appalled expressions.

Sam had zero sympathy for his discomfort because he wasn’t the one who just got told that he’d had an invisible stalker for several years.

Cas seemed to realize that his admission had just gotten him in even more trouble. “I—I just liked to watch over you,” he said, still quiet and vaguely ashamed, even if he didn’t truly understand what he was supposed to be ashamed about. “To make sure you were safe…and to remind myself what I was fighting for.”

Sam squirmed, torn between outrage and embarrassment. Bobby just took a deep breath. “Cas,” he said with forced patience, “I don’t care what kind of _Twilight_ -style creeper shit you got up to as an angel, but I can tell you right now that _this_? This ain’t okay. Can you _imagine_ what Dean would do if he woke up and found you hoverin’ over him like that?” Bobby asked incredulously. “Best case scenario, he’d just punch you in the face on reflex—but then what would he do once he realized what you were doin’?”

Cas obviously knew that Dean’s most likely response would be to just kill him, and was starting to look shamefaced and upset. “Bein’ ‘near Dean’ is only okay when he _knows_ you’re bein’ near him,” Bobby lectured, and now Sam’s embarrassment was coming to the fore, having to listen to Bobby educate Cas on relationship etiquette for use on his _brother_.

“Now,” Bobby said, “if you’re done, you can just go upstairs to your own room, and for God’s sake, stop _spying_ on Dean.”

Cas nodded morosely, getting back up and plodding to the stairs and to his room like he was told.

Once he was gone, Bobby huffed and shook his head, muttering darkly under his breath. “I swear—the shit I have to explain to that boy…you’re supposed to wear _clothes_ , you’re not supposed to eat straight _sugar_ , you’re supposed to keep embarrassing health issues to _yourself_ , you’re not supposed to _stalk your boyfriend_ …”

Sam gave an unamused snort. “Yeah, Bobby, I know.”

“No, you don’t, ‘cause you’re not the one who first had to explain it to him,” Bobby retorted sourly. “So you can just shut up.”

An abrupt snort from the library ended that conversation; Dean was apparently waking up. Sam saw him sit up on the couch, yawning and rubbing his hands through his hair, and then looking over into the kitchen. “Hey,” he said, only a little raspy. “What’s goin’ on?”

And with a completely straight face, Bobby just said, “Not a thing.”


	23. Roughin' It

_Set between “Easy on My Soul” and “Can’t Get Enough”_

Bobby stretched, popping his back and rolling his shoulders before easing himself out of the uncomfortable position he’d fallen asleep in down on the couch. Well, that’s what he got for doin’ his usual “just one more page” routine. Why he never had the good sense to do that when he was upstairs and dressed for sleepin’ and in his own damn bed was beyond him.

Heaving himself up, he checked his watch; his mouth twisted when he saw it was damn near nine in the morning. That was a full two hours later than he liked to have Cas and himself up and movin’ around. He knew from experience that all it took was gettin’ to sleep in for a few days in a row and Cas would develop a habit, and the only thanks Bobby would get for lettin’ him relax for a couple days would be a couple _weeks_ of Cas being petulant and snippy in the mornings because he didn’t want to get up yet. Bobby’d already let him sleep yesterday when he and the boys had rolled in late after that job by Whetstone Bay—twice in a row was more than he needed.

He yawned hugely as he shuffled up the stairs, scratching at the back of his neck as he went and idly running over the chores they’d be doin’ today—or rather, the chores he’d be setting Cas to. There were a couple of texts that’d been giving him trouble; maybe he’d loose Cas on ‘em, see if he could make any sense out of it. He swung a left, pushing open the door and flicking on the light.

“Come on, Cas, get— _sweet friggin’ Christ!_ ”

Cas was already awake, his eyes huge and bloodshot with dark circles under them.

And he was sitting there amongst bloodstained sheets as he scratched furiously at his bloody, torn-up arms.

“Bobby,” Cas suddenly croaked, desperate and panicked and pained, never stopping his scratching, “I think—I think I’m dying!”

Bobby unlocked his limbs and rushed over to him, and he was about to reach out and grab him when he suddenly saw it a little more clearly—saw the blisters and the _rash_ —

“Oh, fucking _hell_ ,” Bobby snarled. “You—how long you been itchin’ this?!”

“All night!” Cas wailed miserably. “I—I didn’t sleep—I _couldn’t_ sleep—it started when I went to bed—”

Bobby spluttered. “You went to bed at _eleven_! You’ve been sitting here tearin’ yourself up for _ten hours_?! Why didn’t you come wake me up to tell me somethin’ was wrong?!” he demanded.

Cas just kept scratching even as he answered. “I—you told me to stop waking you up when I thought I was sick—so I—”

Bobby had no words, just a horrible sinking feeling in his gut, because he _had_ told the miserable little hypochondriac to quit wakin’ him up, and now—now _this_ had happened— _Balls!_

“Bobby—I can’t stop— _it won’t stop itching!_ ” Cas’s panicked shrieking was enough to snap him out of it again.

Bobby stepped back. “It’s poison oak, Cas—you must’ve wandered into it down at Whetstone Bay when you and the boys were campin’,” Bobby said, gesturing him to stand. “Come on, get up—I gotta see where you have it.”

Cas didn’t hesitate, and simply flung off the covers and stood up, shaking and clawing at himself— _Good God Almighty, was there any part of him that_ didn’t _have it?!_ It was all over his chest, his legs, his arms, up his neck and on his face, and when he turned around he saw it was all over his back and even on his _ass_ —

 _Well, thank the powers that be that he kept his hands off the Little Angel_ , Bobby growled to himself. “Cas, you gotta stop scratching,” he ordered. “That’s just—”

“ _I can’t!_ ”

“Yes, you can!” Bobby barked furiously. “That’s what spread it all over you in the first place and for crying out loud, look what you’ve done to yourself!”

“But—Bobby, _it itches_ and I can’t—”

“ _I know._ I know it itches, but you _can_ stop scratchin’ it, ‘cause you’re _gonna_. Now come on—we gotta get you into a shower and clean you off first. And I _mean it_ when I say clean, don’t you just sit in there with a wash cloth and scratch some more—you’re just tearin’ yourself up, ya idjit.”

He ground his teeth together when Cas headed out in front of him to go to the bathroom, but was _still_ scratching furiously at himself—dammit, he wanted to grab his arms and stop him, but like hell he was gonna touch him right now. No sense in _both_ of ‘em gettin’ covered in that shit.

* * *

Dean had gotten poison ivy once. That experience had been _bad_ —for everyone, really, ‘cause Dean had decided to be a little bitch about it. But it was _nothing_ compared to what Bobby had been putting up with for the past two days.

First he’d actually had to get in the bathroom with Cas and take matters into his own hands when it came to washin’ him off—because, despite Bobby tellin’ him _not_ to, he _had_ just sat in there and rubbed furiously at himself with the washcloth, not really scrubbing but just _scratchin’_. Bobby had gotten the full view of just how bad this outbreak was once all the blood was cleaned off, and he knew that he definitely needed to call up a doctor that owed him a favor, because this was twice as bad as whenever Dean or Sam had got this kind of thing. After he made Cas get out of the shower, he’d marched him into the other bedroom—Bobby’s own, because Cas’s sheets would have to be washed first—and made him eat two of his more potent sleeping pills and then had to stand by and slap his hands away every time he tried to start scratchin’ again until he finally passed out. After that, he used the ten hours Cas had been sleepin’ to get what he needed to do done, like callin’ up the doctor and getting Cas some heavy-duty ointment and buyin’ some Calamine and oatmeal-bath crap and bandages.

That night, he’d started Cas in on the treatment right away after he woke up—and had nearly hit the dumbass when he’d immediately started scratchin’ again, tearing open his new scabs in the process. Bobby had made him take a long hot soak in the oatmeal, watching him like a hawk the whole time, and then took him out and irritably bandaged up the worst of his wounds—and there were way more than there needed to be—and then his irritation turned to resignation as he told Cas to get up so he could help him rub in the cortisone cream he’d gotten…and yeah, that included puttin’ it on Cas’s naked butt. After that, he’d spotted him all over with the Calamine and had hoped that would be the end of it.

Except it hadn’t been. Because Cas had _zero_ self-control. He would not stop _picking_ at it, no matter how many times Bobby yelled at him, no matter how many times he threatened him, and no matter how many times he slapped his hands away. He just kept doing it, and so Bobby had had to resort to…rather extreme methods to get him to stop.

Truth be told, Cas was about the sorriest sight he’d seen in a good long while.

 _And now_ , Bobby thought blackly as the sound of the Impala alerted him to Sam and Dean’s return, _those little turds get to see what happens when you don’t friggin’ watch the angel._

Bobby was waiting in front of the back door when they came inside, and they both paused in the doorway when they saw his face.

“Oh—uh, something wrong?” Sam asked, sounding uncertain.

“With me? Nah,” Bobby drawled. “Why don’t you two just head into the living room and say hi to Cas, though, eh?”

He didn’t wait for them and instead just stomped back into the kitchen, sourly going back to the dishes in the sink. He could hear them entering cautiously, and he was just waiting for it—

“What the _fuck_?!”

Yep, that was Dean. Bobby threw the dishcloth back on the counter and turned around, crossing his arms tightly across his front, his mouth a hard line.

Dean and Sam were just gawping at Cas, who was sitting on the couch, moping and looking miserable. He was in a thin t-shirt and shorts, along with thick socks that went up to his knees. His arms and legs were covered in bandages, and dots of Calamine covered anything that wasn’t gauzed, from the knobby knees poking out of the socks all the way up to his cheeks and chin—and Bobby’s thick oven mitts were securely duct-taped onto his hands.

Really, it was just about the most pathetic thing he’d ever seen in his friggin’ _life_.

“Cas, what—” Sam was starting, but Bobby didn’t let him continue.

“Oh, I’ll tell you _what_ ,” Bobby growled. “He’s covered in poison oak, no thanks to _you_ two.”

“What?!” Dean spluttered. “ _Us?_ How the hell are you blaming this on _us_?!”

“Cas told me all about how you two bitched at him for pissin’ where you could see while you were campin’ out in the woods, so he wandered off to take care of his business instead so he wouldn’t offend your delicate sensibilities—and you two _knotheads_ just let him do it, so he probably went and stood right in a big bush of that shit,” Bobby retorted.

“We didn’t _let_ him do anything,” Sam said defensively.

“Oh, don’t you _even_ try that with me—you _know_ he’s an idiot, and you just let him wander off without botherin’ to tell him what plants to look out for now that they can bite him back! _I_ watched out for you two when you were first learnin’ how to camp— _you_ shoulda done the same for him!” Bobby snarled, storming over and slapping Cas’s hand away from where he was forlornly trying to scratch his arm, rubbing his oven mitt over his skin. He managed to look even more pathetic than he already had been.

“We’re not his fucking babysitters,” Dean said, his chin jutting.

“Yes, you _are_ ,” Bobby replied. “I don’t _care_ he’s three years into his new skin, he’s _not_ that many into his new _job_ , and because you two wouldn’t let him use the _ladies’_ room where you two were, he’s now got _this_ —you don’t even wanna _know_ how he looked yesterday when I found him in the morning!”

“What the hell were we supposed to do?! Let him keep pissin’ right outside the tent flap?! That’s just—” Dean spluttered indignantly, but Bobby cut him off again.

“Yes, that’s _exactly_ what I expect you to do!” Bobby hissed. “Don’t give me this ‘oh, how indecent it is to see another dude’s junk’ bullshit, Dean—I still haven’t forgotten the time I caught you two little bastards pissin’ up the side of my house, seein’ who could go higher! If you can handle seein’ Sam’s, you can handle seein’ _his_!”

Dean went red and rigid, but Bobby was way beyond carin’ about his little issues right now—this wasn’t about that _at all_. He noticed that Sam was lookin’ embarrassed and uncomfortable, and he didn’t care about that, either.

“Bobby,” Cas suddenly said pitifully, “don’t…you don’t need to yell at them, I should have paid more attention—”

“You shut up, Cas—I told you to stop tryin’ to say it’s all your fault,” Bobby ordered him. Cas did as he was told, so Bobby rounded on the boys again. “Now, the next time you two take him on a hunt where you have to lurk out in the woods, _don’t_ just let him off his leash so he can go wanderin’ off to go hurt himself! _He’s still learnin’!_ And even if he _wasn’t_ , you _know_ you’re supposed to stick with him or keep him somewhere _safe_ in case somebody catches sight of him and recognizes him!”

Sam, at least, had the good sense to look _somewhat_ ashamed—Dean was still lookin’ like he was on the verge of having a tantrum. Well, Bobby didn’t put up with that crap when he was eight, and he sure as hell wasn’t gonna do that now that he was _thirty_ -eight, so Bobby just stared him down, _darin’_ him to try and puff up and get in his face.

Wisely, Dean backed down, instead pushing past them both and stomping up the stairs, Cas watching him morosely the whole time. Bobby let out an irritated breath, grinding his teeth.

Sam was waffling uncomfortably in the entrance to the kitchen, and Bobby guessed he finally decided to break the silence. “Uh—sorry about this, Cas,” he muttered, gesturing at him. “We, uh—we really should’ve told you about poison oak and ivy and all that.”

Cas reached up to paw at his face, but lowered his hand again when he caught Bobby’s glare. “It’s not your fault, Sam,” Cas said.

Bobby rolled his eyes. Okay, fine—if Cas wanted to go on a guilt trip for this, he’d let him. Wouldn’t be the first time he refused to let anyone else take the blame for somethin’, no matter whose fault it actually was. If it made him happy to be miserable, he could do it.

So long as he didn’t scratch when he did it.


	24. Bella Notte

_Set between “Easy on My Soul” and “Can’t Get Enough”_

Bobby took his hat off for the third time, staring hard at his hair in the mirror. He combed it back down, putting it into some semblance of order, but then once again changed his mind and put his hat firmly back on his head.

To hell with it. If he couldn’t decide with or without, default it was. Who cared what the situation was.

Well, _he_ certainly cared. Only problem was…would _she_?

He felt like an idiot, worryin’ about what signal wearing his hat would send, but…dammit.

This whole thing was a bad idea. What on _earth_ had possessed him to do this?

Really, when he’d been talkin’ with Jody on the phone last week and she’d idly mentioned that her birthday was coming up, and when she’d admitted that she was just gonna spent it at home by herself, he’d just blurted out a dinner invite without thinkin’ about it. In fact, he’d done everything in that conversation without thinkin’ about it. He’d told her he wanted to have her dinner and of course there would be cake, just a nice evening for her birthday—and on top of all that he’d specifically said it would just be him and her. It was only after she’d agreed—sounding a little fluttery, he’d noted—and hung up that it’d truly hit him what he’d just done. And so he’d spent most of the week in a complete panic because he’d just invited Jody over to his place for a quiet dinner and dessert. _Alone._

Cas had actually been useful for a change, Bobby grudgingly admitted. When Bobby had told him what the score was, he’d set to cleanin’ up the house with right good will, mopping and scrubbing and doin’ everything to make sure that the house was as spotless as the old place could get. But after a few days of that—and a few days more for Bobby to stew on what exactly he’d meant by the invitation—and more importantly, just what _Jody_ thought he’d meant by it—he’d taken Cas aside to _explain_ a few things. Mostly to explain that when he meant that he wanted to have dinner alone with Jody, he meant _alone_ with Jody—Cas wasn’t invited. In fact, he wasn’t invited to the upstairs floors at all—kind of how nobody was invited upstairs whenever Cas was foolin’ around with Dean, he’d said pointedly—and Bobby told him he could just dwell in the basement for the night and come out in the morning.

Cas had been fine with all this, of course, even though Bobby had felt bad for banishing him to the basement after all of that cleaning he’d done. After resolving to make it up to him later, he’d asked Cas if he had any idea what to do for dinner, since Bobby was too frazzled to even begin to figure out what to do—he made hunter food, not _nice_ food. He couldn’t make her beans and boxed mashed potatoes, for crying out loud. But, amazingly, Cas _had_ known what to do. He’d calmly told Bobby he would make a pot roast, courtesy of the crock pot that Bobby had bought for him last Christmas, and had even told Bobby that he had dessert covered, too. Bobby had been planning to just go buy something from the store, but when he’d told Cas that Jody had mentioned she liked cream cheese frosting, Cas had informed him that he’d bought a spice cake mix from the store earlier that he’d wanted to try—and since it was supposed to be made with cream cheese frosting, he already had some of that on hand.

As such, since Cas had taken both dinner _and_ dessert upon himself, that left Bobby to go upstairs and just fuss over his appearance like a huge girl going on her first date.

_Balls._

He finally just settled on brushing his teeth one more time before he gave himself up as a lost cause, and after double-checking to make sure all of the buttons on his flannel shirt (and his fly) were cinched up, he trudged downstairs, half-convinced that this was going to be a huge mistake in the long run.

The smell of meat and potatoes greeted him as he walked into the kitchen, and then he quickly spotted Cas finishing up the frosting. The cake itself was hardly fancy—in fact, it was a little lopsided and the frosting looked a tiny bit uneven on one side, but given that it was the first time Cas had ever made one, it was a pretty good effort. Bobby supposed that sort of thing didn’t matter anyway. Or rather, he was _telling_ himself it didn’t matter. What mattered was that it tasted good, and just judging by how it had smelled while it was cooking, that was going to be a yes (he had also realized why Cas had wanted to try the cake himself, given the smell of cinnamon and cloves that had filled the kitchen when he’d been baking it; Bobby would have to ask Jody if he could save a piece for Cas).

Bobby swallowed and, for lack of anything else to do, fussed needlessly with the already-set table, straightening the forks and poking at the chilled bottle of white wine he had out. He almost asked Cas how he thought he looked, but knowing that idjit, he’d just tell him he looked like himself and leave it at that. Besides, he didn’t need to be askin’ him somethin’ that stupid. He wasn’t gonna pass any notes, either. Dammit.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when a knock sounded at the door, and his stomach plummeted when he realized that there was only one person it could be. Cas, of course, was unaffected, merely taking the cake and moving it off to the side and putting everything else away. That left Bobby to answer the door. Swallowing hard, he forced himself to move, going to the front door as quickly as he could and yanking it open.

There she was—not in uniform. Of course she wouldn’t be in uniform. She had on a plain green blouse and jeans, and her hair looked nice. He thought she might be wearing a little makeup.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” he replied breathlessly, and nearly kicked himself for how stupid he sounded. He did his best to save face and instead stepped aside so she could come in.

“Something smells good,” she said after he closed the door.

“I hope you like roast,” Bobby replied.

“I do.”

He led her into the kitchen, and floundered a bit because part of him wanted to pull her chair out for her but the other part of him insisted that was idiotic. In the end, it didn’t matter, because Jody went for the chair herself and sat down before he could do anything.

“Oh—hey, Cas,” she said her voice pleasant if a bit surprised. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Hello, Sheriff.”

“He’s not stayin’,” Bobby said quickly, and then nearly slapped his forehead because dammit, why did he say that?!

Nobody said anything about it, though. Cas had just finished putting the roast and all of the vegetables on Bobby’s beat-up old serving platter, and then he walked right up to the table and picked up both of the plates Bobby had set out, taking them over to the counter and loading them up.

Bobby scowled—who did he think he was, playing _butler_? What next, would he slide a towel through his belt loop? Bobby would so deck him if he did, he didn’t care if Jody was watchin’. Why didn’t he just _leave_?

He snapped out of it, though, and went to sit down across from her at the table. Clearing his throat, he reached for the wine, holding it up for her to see. “I hope you like white,” he said apologetically. “I know we really should’ve had red for what we’re eatin’, but I didn’t have any in the house, and kind of only remembered it about an hour ago…”

“I’m not one to stand on ceremony,” Jody smiled. “‘Sides, I like white better than red anyway.”

Bobby ducked his head and pulled the cork out, having already used the corkscrew to loosen it. He poured them both half-full glasses, and when he was done, Cas showed back up with both plates full of steaming meat, potatoes, carrots, and onions and set them in front of their respective owners.

“Thank you,” Jody said warmly.

“Thanks. Uh…Cas made dinner. And dessert,” Bobby added gruffly, knowing that there was no way he was gonna try and lie and say he made all of this—wouldn’t be fair to Cas anyway. Now he could _leave_.

“Well, it smells great. I was just gonna pick something up on my way home for my birthday, but I’ll take home cooking over that any day,” she answered, giving them both a grin.

“Thank you,” Cas said, going back up to the kitchen counter. Oh, what the hell—now he was makin’ his _own_ plate. Okay, he wouldn’t begrudge Cas doin’ that, because he wasn’t gonna send him to the basement with no dinner, but dammit, couldn’t he have done that _before_ she’d arrived?!

Bobby felt like maybe he should raise his glass and propose a toast to Jody’s birthday, but he didn’t wanna do that—at least, not with Cas messin’ around up there. He just wanted to wait patiently until he and Jody were alone, but—dammit, would that look stupid or not? He sure as hell looked stupid _now_ , just starin’ at her like a dumbass and not sayin’ anything!

But his panicked thoughts were suddenly interrupted when Cas turned back around and stretched out over the table and plonked a beer bottle right in the middle of it. But it wasn’t just any beer bottle—it was an old empty Corona with the label still on it, and sticking out of the top was a ratty, beat-up white séance candle, and then Cas struck a match and lit it.

Horrible heat crawled up his face, but all Bobby could do was glare at him as he blew out the match and wandered over to the sink. _Since when did_ you _get so smart?_ he thought blackly. He—dammit, he’d done it again. That little rat-bastard had just screwed things up _again_ , not leavin’ like Bobby’d told him to do, just standing up there fartin’ around and puttin’ _candles_ on the damn table—

“Nice touch,” Jody said lightly. She turned to smile up at Cas. “Everything looks wonderful, Cas—thanks.”

Cas simply nodded back. “You’re welcome,” he said. “I hope you enjoy dinner and the cake. Goodnight. I’ll be in the basement if you need me.”

And then he wandered off with his own plate of dinner in his hand, his utensils sticking out of his pocket, detouring only to pick up the little stack of paperbacks he’d set out for himself earlier, and headed down into the basement for the duration of the evening.

Bobby was still a little frozen in place when Jody picked up her glass of wine and raised it. “So?” she asked, her expression warm and amused and dammit, she was pretty.

Bobby forced himself to move, clearing his throat and picking up his own glass to tap the rim against hers. “Uh…happy birthday, Jody.”

* * *

_Okay, I gotta hand it to Cas_ , Bobby thought as he lazily ran one hand down the smooth, warm skin of Jody’s back. _That candle did the trick._


	25. Back to Business

_Set the morning after “Bella Notte”_

Jody tip-toed down the creaking staircase, her arms happily wrapped around her middle. She’d left the still-sleeping Bobby with a kiss on the tip of his nose and, in an admittedly stupid bout of girlishness, just put on his flannel shirt; it was warm and just long enough to cover her underwear, and if its smell of whiskey, gunpowder, and cheap aftershave wasn’t the most romantic smell in the world, well, it still smelled like _Bobby_ , so that was fine by her.

She crossed the library and swung around the partition to the kitchen, with every intention of making breakfast—and stopped short when she realized that someone had beaten her to it.

Castiel was standing by the kitchen counter, wearing a tatty old shirt and a baggy pair of shorts, his hair sticking up all over his head, and was cracking eggs into a bowl.

Jody’s face went red; after such a good dinner and two slices of cake and a whole bottle of wine and…everything else that happened after that, she’d quite frankly forgotten Castiel was even here. Figured that when she tried to turn to sneak back out and upstairs that she’d put her foot on a creaking board, and Castiel looked up.

“Good morning, Sheriff,” he said evenly.

Jody’s face burned as she fruitlessly tugged at the hem of her—Bobby’s—shirt. “Uh—hi—morning, Cas,” she stuttered, and then dived for a chair so she could get her bare legs hidden under the table. The minute she was safely covered she realized how silly she was being—he was acting like he hadn’t even noticed. Although if what Bobby had told her about him and Dean was true, then he may _not_ have. And anyway, she’d already seen Castiel naked—she could handle him seeing her underwear.

“How do you like your eggs?” Cas’s words made her jump a little, and she looked up to see him holding an egg and a pan, waiting expectantly.

“Oh—I—actually, I was coming down here to make breakfast—” she started.

“That’s all right—it’s my job,” Cas said.

“Well, okay—over-easy, I guess.”

Cas nodded and then turned back to the stove. “I usually make French toast on Saturdays,” he said as he cracked an egg into the pan, “but if there is something else you would rather have, I can make it.”

“Oh—no—French toast is fine—better than fine, it sound great,” she said, more earnestly now. “I haven’t had that in years.”

Cas nodded and turned back to the stove.

It was quiet except for the sounds of Cas making breakfast: breaking eggs, sizzling bacon, the rustle of plastic. Jody was just sitting there, compulsively smoothing her hair and fiddling with her hem some more and trying to think of a way that she might be able to escape and put some clothes on without being too obvious about it, when Cas finally spoke again. “Did you enjoy dinner, Sheriff?” he asked as he slapped the egg-soaked bread into the pan.

She looked up sharply, her cheeks heating—but the minute she saw his face, absorbed in his task and completely without guile, she relaxed. “Yeah—it was great. And you know, you can probably call me Jody now, Cas,” she added dryly. _After all, I’ve seen yours and you’ve seen most of mine._

“All right,” he said.

“We saved you a piece of cake, too,” she said, remembering.

“Oh, thank you—I’d wanted to try it.”

She smiled, slowly starting to feel a little more at ease with the situation—even if, she thought wryly, anyone walking in would think she’d just spent the night with _Cas_ , rather than Bobby. “So—ah—what’d you get up to last night?” she asked, trying to deflect any conversation from what _she’d_ been doing.

“I practiced my dart game,” he said as he deftly flipped the French toast. “And then I read until I went to sleep.”

“Oh? What’re you reading?”

“I finished _Nine Rules to Break While Romancing a Rake_ ,” he said, utterly deadpan.

Jody blinked. “Really,” she managed.

“Yes—Bobby recommended it.”

She blinked again. “Did he.”

Cas nodded from where he was watching the bacon. “Yes—he generally favors historical romances. I prefer the modern ones, though.”

Jody coughed to hide her snicker. “You two swap reading material, then?” she asked.

Cas shook his head. “No—I just borrow from Bobby’s collection,” he said, pointing to the very _large_ cabinet against the wall of the library.

Jody giggled a little into her hand, but at the sound of the creaking stairs, she looked up.

There was Bobby, sans his ubiquitous hat, his hair rumpled, wearing a ratty old bathrobe. Jody beamed at him, feeling stupidly fluttery and girlish as he gave her a bashful smile back—which suddenly transformed into a thunderous scowl as Cas appeared in her field of vision, putting silverware out on the table.

“Good morning, Bobby,” he said benignly. “Did you have a nice evening?”

Even from where she was sitting, Jody could see Bobby’s face go red; hers was a little warm too, but she couldn’t help but smile as Bobby cleared his throat and looked meaningfully at her and said, “I had the _best_ evening.” And then he was glaring at Cas again as he growled, “And I _was_ havin’ a pretty good morning, too.”

The hint sailed right over Cas’s head; he just went back to the stove to tend to breakfast.

Bobby gave him one last dirty look before coming over to the table and sliding into the seat across from her. “Mornin’,” he said, his cheeks still a bit pink as he reached a tentative hand across the table; she took it with a smile and raised up in her seat to lean over for a kiss, who cared if Cas saw her butt while she did it.

“Morning,” she said as she sat back down, tucking one foot up under her so she wouldn’t give in to the childish impulse to play footsie. “And just between you and me, I think _I_ had the best evening.”

His boyish little grin and ducking head was about the most adorable thing she’d seen in years—but she didn’t get to look at it for long, because there was Cas, leaning across the table to set out mugs and glasses, and Bobby glowered at him while he poured milk and orange juice.

Jody bit her lip, torn between annoyance and amusement; amusement won out, because Bobby looked like he was trying to burn a hole in Cas with his eyes while Cas was as usual utterly oblivious to his fury, and, well, that was always funny. Bobby had let go of her hand when Cas had showed up, so she reached for it again—and Cas was back, this time bringing plates heaped with bacon and eggs and French toast to set in front of them.

“Would you like syrup for your toast?” he asked. “I prefer cinnamon and sugar.”

Bobby was grinding his teeth; Jody looked briefly at the table before smiling and saying patiently, “Syrup will be fine, Cas.” He nodded and padded over to the cabinet, and then brought back the bottle to set next to her. “Thank you, Cas,” she said, and she really did mean it, despite the fact that the entire situation wasn’t quite her ideal morning after.

He nodded and retreated to the counter. Jody watched him go before turning back to Bobby, who still looked like he wouldn’t have minded in the least if the earth opened up and just swallowed Cas whole, and she couldn’t help but smile, reaching out to take his hand.

He jumped a little at the first touch of her fingers, and then his irritation melted away. “In fact, I had such a nice evening, I kind of hope to have more like it,” she said softly.

Bobby coughed a little and looked up at her with a sly sort of shyness. “Well, I think that could be arranged,” he said.

She jumped at the sudden clatter of china and cutlery on the table next to her—and there was Cas yet again, setting a third plate and a glass of orange juice down on the table, before sitting down in the empty chair next to her.

Jody just looked at him, not quite sure she could believe what was happening—at least, until she got a look at Bobby’s face; he was wearing that look of mixed mortification and outrage that he always seemed to get when Cas was in the same room as the two of them, and that convinced her that it was real.

Cas didn’t notice the fact that she was silently willing him away (or that Bobby was silently willing him dead), just shook out his napkin and put it in his lap before reaching across her to where the salt and pepper stood at the end of the table—and grabbed the plastic canister of Metamucil that was standing behind them.

Jody could only watch as Cas calmly poured a spoonful into his orange juice and stirred—and then stirred another into Bobby’s. Then he turned to her and politely asked, “Would you like some, Jody?”

Bobby let out a choking noise, his face turning an alarming shade of red; he looked like he could cheerfully strangle Cas right then and there.

Okay. That was it. This was no longer annoying or irritating or any of those things—this was just hilarious. As far as Jody was concerned, Cas could have breakfast with them any time he wanted.

“Why not?” she said, and obligingly held out her glass, and Cas dosed her up too. “So—to the best birthday I’ve had in years,” she said, raising her glass.

Cas tilted his head at her, but held up his glass too, looking somewhat confused. Bobby remained frozen for a moment more, but when Jody lightly kicked his ankle under the table, he snapped out of it and picked up his juice, and they all three clinked their glasses—or rather, she and Bobby clinked theirs against Cas’s while he just held his in the air.

“Cheers, boys,” she said, and they drank up.


	26. Hallelujah

_Set between “Easy on My Soul” and “Can’t Get Enough”_

Okay. Dean prided himself on having one fantastic jerk-off regimen. He _knew_ he had damn fine technique, and was so not ashamed of it. But fucking _hell_ , he had _no clue_ what kind of shit Cas was doing when he played with himself, because there was absolutely no other explanation for just how good he was at giving a handjob—not to mention how fast he’d managed to _get_ this good. His grip was just right, he knew every sensitive spot to touch, he knew Dean liked it when he pressed his thumb all up in his dick, and it was so _fucking_ awesome.

And it drove him fucking _nuts_.

He was already mildly squicked out before Cas had started because he’d just given Cas a handjob a few minutes ago. Yeah, it was…nice listening to Cas softly moan his name as he came, shaking violently and clinging desperately to Dean, all because Dean ruled, but he still didn’t like the fact that he ruled on a dude. That really wasn’t all that cool. Hell, he was already having trouble convincing himself that he _hadn’t_ purposely come up here with the vague hope for a little action. He knew that had to look awful—slinking up here in the middle of the night after everyone else had gone to bed…but he’d…just _wanted_ to. For some reason, coming home to find Cas had made a big pot of beef stew because Bobby wasn’t feeling well just…he’d wanted to say _thank you_ , dammit. He’d just wanted to say thanks for the admittedly really good dinner and the quick translation he’d given them on their last hunt. And maybe…make out a little. But he so did not come up here to get his hand down Cas’s pants. And he _certainly_ hadn’t come up here so Cas could get his hand down _his_ pants, either!

But that’s how it was. Cas had his hand in Dean’s pants. And he was doing all _kinds_ of magic in there, and it was _so_ not cool. Except how it was awesome. _Shit._

Dean could not figure out why the fuck Cas never _built up_ to anything. Dean didn’t necessarily draw it out ( _fuck_ no, he didn’t), but when Dean let Cas jerk him off, he didn’t start off with a few simple tugs, oh no. He was immediately squeezing and twisting, all while he kissed every last sensitive spot on Dean’s neck that made him twitch. Jesus _Christ_ , the fact that this was this good _seriously_ freaked Dean out, because—goddammit, it was just a _handjob_! From a _dude_! But no, his dick didn’t care about that. In fact, no part of his body cared about that, ‘cept his brain, because he was rocking his hips minutely against Cas’s hand, and his breathing was ragged, and he was having to bite his lip to keep from groaning too loud. Shit—Cas had barely been at it more than a minute or two and Dean was already going crazy and feeling that slow simmer, knowing it wouldn’t be too long until it was white-hot and he was ready to blow his load. Well, fine. The sooner this was over, the better—because it would mean Cas would get his hand out of his fucking shorts and off his fucking dick.

Cas pushed a little against his shoulder, and Dean grudgingly went with it, rolling to his side and off of Cas. Cas just stayed right with him, though, tucking his face up under Dean’s chin, his breath hot on his skin. He shuddered when Cas’s grip changed, and grunted thickly when he circled the head of Dean’s cock with his palm several times over. He had time to pant a little and try to wrap his head around this whole thing when Cas shifted a bit, releasing him and pulling his hand out so he could spit into his palm, but then he just moaned quietly when Cas reached down and grabbed him again, his fingers slippery, jerking him hard and fast all while licking behind his ear.

Dean suddenly became aware that he had his arms around Cas and was holding him tightly against him, and that really, _really_ wasn’t all that acceptable (plus, he was crushing Cas). But he—goddammit, he needed _something_ to hang onto, because Cas was _good_ , and he was _relentless_ , and Dean could not take this at all. The whole thing—getting an awesome handjob from _Cas_ , who was a _guy_ , right after he’d given _Cas_ what he knew was a pretty awesome handjob, all while Bobby and Sam were right there in the house—

No, no, he could not think about _Sam_ while doing this, that just—it messed things up and drew out what was going on. So he focused on Cas doing his weird thing with his pulse again, just pressing his lips against it where it was beating hard in his neck, and even though he _so_ did not want to focus on what was going on, it was better than thinking about his fucking _brother_ while doing this.

Cas slowed down suddenly until he had stopped altogether, but that wasn’t much of a relief because then his thumb was circling the head of his prick, and then—oh, _fuck_ , he was just rubbing right there at the wet slit at the tip, harder with every stroke, and Dean didn’t really care that he was crushing Cas anymore because that meant all that _skin_ was up against his, and he was so _hot_ … _everything_ was hot. It was _always_ hot like this, and he knew it was only gonna get hotter—was already _getting_ hotter. Cas prodded all up in his dick a few more times before he started fiercely jerking him again, twisting his wrist just right every single time…

“ _Shit_ ,” he groaned through clenched teeth, his chest hitching. That just made Cas go at him harder, even as he slid his knee between Dean’s legs and there was that pressure up against his balls—oh Jesus, he was coming up fast… “Fuck— _fuck_ —oh, _God_ — _Cas_ —”

And then abruptly, everything just stopped.

Dean’s eyes flew open when Cas’s hand just stopped moving and he went stiff, freezing in place, and Dean pulled back just as Cas did. Dean had every mind to tell Cas that you don’t just fucking _stop_ , what the fuck was he _doing_ , when he saw Cas’s wide-eyed, almost _shocked_ look, which dulled Dean’s cockteased indignation and aching need to get off, replacing it with muddy confusion—what the _fuck_ was his problem, goddammit—

Then it hit him.

 _…oh, shit. Did I just—oh,_ fuck _._

This wasn’t the worst flameout he’d ever had, but this was bad. This was horrible. It was only natural that his dick would already be drooping, because he could feel what felt like all the blood in his body slamming into his face. He was very grateful that it was dark, because that meant Cas couldn’t see him fucking _blushing_ , because—oh, he’d _really_ screwed up—

Gingerly, Cas uncurled his fingers and pulled his hand out of Dean’s shorts, and Dean quickly let him go, scooting backwards and staring at anything that wasn’t Cas.

Shit. He’d been coming up here and…messing around with Cas for over three years. He had _never_ done that, never had this problem, because he’d actually _realized_ it was a bad idea to say _that_ so had done his very best to avoid it, and now he’d…

 _Say it like it is, Winchester_ , his brain sneered. _You just said his dad’s name in bed._

And…there was no way he could argue with it. And this was probably the _worst_ “wrong name in bed” scenario he’d ever been in. Yeah, he’d done it before…maybe once or twice…but—

Goddammit, he couldn’t _help_ it! That was—it _wasn’t_ calling a name in bed! It was just a _word_! _Everybody_ said that in bed! And Cas had—

Unable to stand it anymore, he risked a glance at Cas. Cas was looking almost…it wasn’t quite _offended_ , but it wasn’t just the usual confusion, either. Whatever it was, it was not good.

Jesus Christ, this was one of the most awkward moments he’d ever had in his life. And it wasn’t fucking _fair_.

He wanted to leave. He wanted to get out of here and go to his own room and pretend this never, _ever_ happened. Just…get out of bed, sleep on the couch, maybe jerk off because goddamn, he’d been so close, and they would never mention this again.

But he couldn’t—because Cas wasn’t normal. Cas was an _idiot_. Cas was making him feel more embarrassed and guilty about this every fucking _second_ , just sitting there and cutting his eyes away from him like that.

Dean cleared his throat, struggling to find _something_ to say. “I—sorry,” he finally muttered, and felt his face heat up even more. This was horrible. “I didn’t…mean to…do that.”

Cas wasn’t saying anything, so Dean felt obligated to continue. Anything other than this awful silence. “People…just say that. You know. It doesn’t…mean anything. I wasn’t…” He scrubbed one hand across his face. “I wasn’t… _calling_ you that or…something.”

Cas still wasn’t saying anything, and Dean was contemplating crawling out of bed to find his shirt and at least put that on, but then Cas mumbled quietly, “I know.”

Okay, he so did not like that tone. Jesus Christ, if Cas was gonna go into a major funk just because Dean accidentally—said _that_ , and said it _one time_ after this _whole_ time, he might just have to tell the bastard off, because that was ridiculous. Dean risked another glance and—oh, what the _fuck_? Was he seriously—Dean recognized that. Was he seriously… _powering down?_ He was—that was a goddamn angelic depression. He was friggin’ going _angelically depressed_ —over this?! What the hell kind of apology did he _want_?! Dean felt bad enough— _embarrassed_ enough—but now _this_?!

_Pull your head out and think about it, dumbass._

Dean twitched when that stupid voice that sounded like Sam drawled right in his ear, but then he froze when he _did_ think about it.

 _“I give you so much. I put an end to any plans to bring about the Apocalypse. I struck down the angels who wished to use you. I restored your brother’s sanity and healed his wounds and scars. I returned Bobby, brought him back and breathed new life into him. I stay the hand of Hell. I have done_ everything _for you…why is what I ask of you so much? Is it really so difficult to kneel before me…and call me your God?”_

Okay. This was officially the worst thing that had ever happened when he was in bed with someone, and that included the time the chick puked right in his mouth when he was kissing her.

The embarrassment was one thing. Offending Cas…yeah, he’d pout and sulk, but Dean could handle that. But now, oh, he’d—god _dammit_ , there was not a _worse thing_ he could’ve done. Not a _single_ thing.

“Cas,” he began haltingly, and squinted when Cas wouldn’t look at him. “Seriously, I’m—I’m sorry. It was…just an accident. It’s not…” He sighed, unable to believe what he was about to do. He opened his mouth to talk again, but realized talking would just make it worse, and there wasn’t much else he could _say_. Cas didn’t _do_ words, because half the time he didn’t even get what Dean was talking about. So, uncomfortable as hell, he scooted a little closer to Cas, chewing on the inside of his cheek, and awkwardly got one arm around Cas’s shoulders.

For a second, nobody moved, and during that second Dean thought Cas was either gonna be unresponsive or just plain shrug him off, which meant that he was gonna be bitchy on top of depressed (which would probably be the combo from hell, knowing Cas), but then suddenly Cas just kind of rolled right into it, curling up next to Dean, his face against his shoulder and his hand coming up to paw at his ribs. Dean just kind of froze, not sure what to do with this—they _so_ did not do this in bed, they _never_ did this in bed, there was no—no fucking _cuddling_ , it was _not allowed_ —but pushing him off was not an option right now. So, trying to make himself relax, he drew his other arm up, gingerly getting both of them around Cas and stiffly resting his chin on top of Cas’s head, staring forcefully at the wall.

He tensed when Cas shifted a bit, and then felt the rush of air on his chest when Cas suddenly opened his mouth and spoke. “I’m so sorry, Dean,” he whispered.

Dean grimaced. “No. Don’t even do that. You—just _don’t_ ,” he growled. “I mean it. _Don’t._ This is—” He sucked in a few fortifying breaths, still trying to come to grips with the fact that he was frickin’ _cuddling_ Cas. “Go to sleep,” he grunted.

Wait—no, he didn’t want Cas to go to sleep, not like _this_! But no, order had been given, and Cas was shifting and getting more comfortable, all up against him— _fuck!_

Squeezing his eyes shut and ignoring how his neck felt hot, he slowly tried to calm himself down. _Just wait until he goes to sleep. Then you can get him the hell off of you. And maybe leave. Just…don’t throw him off now. You fucked up, now you deal with it._

Yes. He _would_ deal with this—it was his fault. He could usually blame most things on Cas (because they always were his fault anyway), but this time he couldn’t. So now he was gonna man up and take his punishment and fucking _cuddle_ Cas’s depression away. God, this was worse than when he’d slunk out into the garage and conned Dean into cuddling him in the backseat of the Impala. At least then he’d had some damn clothes on—now he was down to his fucking shorts. Both of them were. Jesus. At least they were both under the covers, due to it being the middle of winter and Bobby’s heater was out.

He knew it probably didn’t take long in reality for Cas to fall asleep—it never did, because apparently depowered angels were like chickens: put their heads under their wings and they just immediately nod off. But it _felt_ like forever, Cas breathing on him, petting his chest, and Dean just sat there and recited his favorite lines from _Debbie Does Dallas_ the whole time to keep his mind on something other than _this_. But eventually the puffs of breath skating across his skin deepened and slowed, and he knew Cas was asleep—and Cas never slept lightly. Dean knew that from whenever he woke up before Cas did on the rare occasion that he decided it wasn’t worth the effort to get up after…coming up here and messing around a little. He could get out of bed and get dressed and Cas wouldn’t even move.

Dean would sit for a few more minutes—just ‘cause Cas had dozed off didn’t mean he was completely asleep yet; Dean knew better than to start jostling him around right after he fell asleep. But once he was really out cold, Dean could get him _off_ of him, because this was seriously uncomfortable—well, not quite. The way Cas radiated heat wasn’t causing Dean any issues (for once), because it was friggin’ _cold_ in this house. Sam was already ensconced on the couch downstairs with practically all of Cas’s afghans stacked on top of him, and Bobby was doing the same in his own bedroom. And here was Dean, with his own personal radiator. Damn everything, it was making him dozy, and though he was _seriously_ not cool with this, that part was…actually kinda comfortable. Position-wise, anyway. Somehow, though, that made the whole damn thing worse. Being _comfortable_ with a dude in his arms was the most uncomfortable thought he’d ever had in his life.

Shifting a little, he managed to get some distance between himself and Cas—got Cas’s head on his own pillow, at least. Well, halfway on his own pillow—he was still using Dean’s arm as part of it, too. Not for long, though—Dean was only giving him a few more minutes before he was so moving. He’d move, and then he could slide out of bed and get back to his own room and be fine. If he stayed here he’d probably wake up with Cas way too close to him anyway, seeing as he friggin’ _migrated_ , the bastard, which was half the reason why Dean tended to not stay after they…did their thing. And after what he pulled tonight, well, Dean really didn’t want to deal with that. He needed to just get back to his own space, maybe have a little jerk, and then go to sleep and forget all about the fact that he’d just been a seriously huge tool.

He’d push Cas off when the snoring started. That sounded like a good plan. So he settled in a bit more, sighing hugely, and began what he hoped would not be a long wait.

* * *

Thinking back on it later, as he hid in the garage and changed the Impala’s oil, he figured it was probably better that he’d fallen asleep in Cas’s bed. Cas probably would’ve gone into a funk again if he’d woken up and found him gone or something.

Dumbass.


	27. Nutcracker

_Set between “Easy on My Soul” and “Can’t Get Enough”_

_Shit!_

Sam swore breathlessly as he ran, because the shapeshifter was still running, which meant that he’d missed, and now he was out of silver bullets. Cas didn’t have a gun, ‘cause Bobby said he wasn’t ready to be carrying one, and so that meant it was up to Dean now, and Sam knew he’d already gone through at least half of his own ammo.

She was still running, and Sam put on a burst of speed, anything to catch her and drive her towards where he’d left Dean and Cas, ‘cause they had to get her—she was killing people and taking their places until she got flushed out and then she did it again, and if they lost her now, she’d just go to ground and kill some other poor bastard. They had to put her down _now_!

Sam’s lungs were burning, but thank God, she veered off to the left, and he followed her, tapping his last reserves and closing in on her, and yes, there was Dean, and his gun was raised—

 _Fuck!_ She swerved at the last minute, and the squeal she let out told him that Dean had clipped her, but not enough to drop her, she was still moving, no, they couldn’t lose her—

And then Cas came flying out of nowhere, and she let loose with a howl of fury when he tackled her, and she was fighting and clawing like an angry cat, but Cas was hanging on for grim death no matter how she flailed, and she was writhing and hissing and spitting and whaling on him but he wouldn’t let go no matter how she twisted—

—until she turned in his grasp just enough to face him, and with a sickening crunch slammed her knee right into his balls.

Sam cringed in reflexive pain and horror; Cas’s eyes went wide, and then with a breathless shriek that spiraled up into the range normally reserved for calling dogs, he let her go and collapsed into a ball on the ground, holding his crotch.

But Sam didn’t have time to stop, because with a triumphant laugh the shapeshifter scrambled to her feet and took off running—

_BLAM!_

And she dropped like a stone, churning up the old rotting leaves beneath her as she hit the ground as Dean’s shot found her heart.

Sam was closest, so he went to confirm the kill. He rolled her over with his foot to see her blank dead face; a quick check showed that she had no pulse, so that was that.

He left her there and trotted over to where Dean was approaching Cas.

He hadn’t moved, was still curled tightly up in the fetal position, defensively cradling his injured testicles, his breath coming in helpless whistling gasps.

“Cas?” Dean asked tentatively. No answer. “You okay, dude?” he tried again.

“ _Dean_ —” Cas barely managed to get that much out. “I can’t—I can’t _breathe_ —” he panted.

Dean looked up at Sam with helpless commiseration before hunkering down next to him; Sam followed suit. “Try to relax, man,” Dean said. “Try to take deep breaths.”

“I—I _can’t_ ,” he wheezed, tears squirting from the corners of his eyes. “Dean—Dean, I’m _dying_!”

Dean didn’t laugh at him. “No, you’re not—it just feels like it.”

“Come on, Cas,” Sam said gently, wrapping his hands around his shoulders. “We gotta get out of here.”

Cas tried to move, but just fell back down on the ground with a plaintive moan. Sam looked up. “Come on, Dean—we gotta get him out of here before the cops show up,” he said, jerking his chin at the body a few yards away; with all the guns that had been going off, it was only a matter of time before a black-and-white appeared.

“Yeah,” Dean said with a nod, and then without the slightest hesitation leaned down and helped Sam get his hands under Cas’s arms to haul him up.

Cas didn’t uncurl; even when they lifted him up he remained huddled in a tight ball. The two of them ended up pretty much carrying him to the car, but they didn’t complain and didn’t pick on him. There were just some things that you didn’t make fun of. Particularly when it was literally the first time the poor bastard had gotten kicked in the nuts.

They hauled ass to their motel, Cas moaning pitifully in the back seat. Thanks to Cas’s anal-retentiveness—he’d been compulsively keeping their stuff neat for the whole hunt—it was an easy job of packing everything up and throwing it in the car so they could bug out.

Just before they left, Dean paused, and then went around the back of the car and reopened the trunk. Sam peered out the window in time to see Dean coming around on his side with a beer; the frosty sides told him that he’d gotten it out of the cooler. He opened the back door and leaned in over Cas.

“Hey, Cas,” he said, his voice roughly gentle. Cas managed to open his eyes to see Dean holding out the beer. “Take this, dude—the cold helps. Put it down—” He gestured vaguely at his crotch, and then at Cas’s.

Ever-so-slowly, Cas managed to get one hand out to take the beer with shaking fingers, and then equally slowly slid it downward, so he could tuck it between his legs with a piteous little whimper. Dean grimaced, and then reached into his coat pocket for his flask and unscrewed the cap. “Here you go,” he said, reaching down to lift his head as he brought the neck to Cas’s lips. “Suck on this, buddy—it’ll help.”

Cas took a few swallows, Dean holding his head up, before he laid back down on the seat with a thready little groan. Dean capped the flask and put it away as he stood, shutting the door and coming back around to get in the driver’s seat and start the car.

“Poor son of a bitch,” Dean said when he caught Sam’s eye as he turned to back out.

“Yeah,” Sam agreed, peering back at the shaking ball in the back seat before looking back at Dean. He was pulling out of the motel parking lot, but Sam caught him casting sympathetic glances in the rearview mirror as he did, and he kept doing it as they drove, occasionally asking Cas how he was, and having Sam give him some aspirin once they got out of town.

Sam guessed that when it came down to it, Dean’s dude-sympathy was enough to override his dude-phobia.


	28. Laundry Day

_Set between “Easy on My Soul” and “Can’t Get Enough”_

“Dear God—it’s like I don’t even know you,” Dean said, his voice thick with disgust. “Angelina Jolie, hotter than Marilyn Monroe? My ass!”

“Are you out of your friggin’ mind?” Sam demanded. “Have you even _seen_ her in that Lara Croft getup?” He held his hands out in front of his chest, miming holding something approximately the size of two watermelons.

“Oh, don’t give me that crap,” Dean said dismissively. “So she’s got a good body, I’ll give her that—”

“She’s got a _fantastic_ body,” Sam interrupted firmly.

“—but the point is,” Dean went on loudly as if Sam hadn’t spoken, “that the body is all she’s got. She doesn’t have the face that Marilyn had, and she sure as hell doesn’t have the _presence_.”

“Since when have you cared if a woman had presence?” Sam asked scathingly.

Dean gave him a withering look. “Angelina Jolie may be stacked and all, but in the end, she’ll be just another it-girl in the tabloids and forgotten about in ten years—Marilyn Monroe is _timeless_ , and I’ve already got _time_ backin’ me up, so you can just—” He stopped, his brow furrowing, when he saw that Sam had just looked behind him, and whatever he’d seen had made his eyebrows fly up nearly into his hair.

Puzzled, Dean turned around in his chair—to see Cas by the couch with his laundry basket, calmly folding a little pair of lacy, white women’s panties.

Dean stared. It took him a moment to find his voice, but when he did, it was to demand, “What in the _hell_ are those?”

Cas calmly put the panties in the basket with the rest of the folded clothes and replied, “Sheriff Mills left them here last week.”

Sam and Dean’s jaws dropped. Then, very slowly, they turned towards the desk.

All they could see of Bobby was a very red forehead between the brim of his cap and the book he was holding firmly in front of his face.

“Bobby,” Cas said as he picked up his basket, “where would you like me to put Jody’s underwear so you can return them to her when you see her next?”

Bobby’s face went darker still, but when he lowered his book, he wore and expression of forced nonchalance. “In my room—where else?” he said, and Cas nodded and then headed upstairs with the basket.

Sam and Dean just gawped at him, until he gave them a defiant glare. “What’re you lookin’ at?” he growled, and then snapped his book closed, got up, and marched into the library.

Dean shut his mouth with a snap before saying in disbelief, “That old bastard.”


	29. Where the Heart Is

_Set between “Easy on My Soul” and “Can’t Get Enough”_

“Bobby?”

He looked up from the computer screen; Cas was standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the library, wet all down his front from where he’d been desultorily doing the dishes, his eyebrows all upturned and his face all drooping and pathetic.

Bobby rolled his eyes skyward. _Crap._ Cas had been having himself a nice little sulk for the past few days, what with Dean being gone for two months. But last night they’d gotten a call from Sam, and he said they were on a new string of possible jobs and it looked like there might be another month before he and Dean got a chance to swing by. And, sure enough, that had sent Cas on a downward spiral into full-blown angelic depression again. Bobby had already caught him sitting in a chair all spaced-out and miserable this morning, and even after blasting him to his feet and putting him to work, he still hadn’t snapped out of it. Hell, it’d taken him half an hour just to wash the dishes from breakfast and lunch.

“What is it, Cas?” Bobby asked flatly, already knowing that it was starting: Cas’s endless, fretful whining about when Dean was gonna get home.

“How—how do you stand it?”

Bobby crunched up his eyebrows. “Stand what?” he asked, perplexed.

“When Jody isn’t here,” Cas clarified, which really didn’t clarify anything. At least, not at first. “You can concentrate on your work and don’t seem upset—how can you be, when your lover isn’t with you?”

Bobby’s face went red—dammit—but of course Cas didn’t see that. He just curled his arms around himself and looked positively wretched. “I can’t stand it when Dean is gone for so long—how do you do it?”

Bobby sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose before closing his laptop. Looked like he wasn’t just gonna have to deal with the usual depression-crap this time, oh no; now he was gonna get to have a heart-to-heart with the little bastard. Joy.

“Sit down,” he grunted, pointing at the chair next to him before picking up one of the old glasses on the table and wiping it out with the tail of his shirt. He poured a finger of whiskey in it (and two more in his own) and pushed it across to where Cas had unhappily flopped down into his seat. “Have a drink.”

Cas just looked morosely at the glass. “I’m not supposed to—Dean doesn’t like it,” he said dolefully.

“Drink it,” Bobby said, a warning note in his voice, and Cas looked even more dejected, if such a thing was possible, but he picked up the glass anyway. “Slowly,” Bobby reminded. “Just sips—then what happened last time won’t happen again.”

He scrubbed a hand across his face, trying to figure out just what the hell he was supposed to say to Cas about this. Cas was quiet, just taking the tiniest sips from his glass; even then, he’d worked his way through half of it before Bobby finally eyed him, sighed, and then took a stab at it. “Cas,” he started, “when you’re feelin’ all bad, missin’ Dean—just who is it you’re thinkin’ about?”

Cas looked up, bewildered. “I’m thinking about Dean,” he said, as if stating the obvious (and with just a tiny bit of Angelic Attitude in there, like Bobby was just a senile old fart not to know that).

Bobby’s mouth twisted. “No—you’re not. You’re thinkin’ about yourself.”

Cas bristled immediately, and Bobby was glad to see it. “I am not!” he said hotly.

Bobby just raised an eyebrow. “Oh no?” he asked. Cas just glared back at him, but he didn’t give him a chance to talk. “Dean has things to do—he has jobs, he has his brother, he has a life, he has people to save, and all those things are important to him.” Bobby fixed him with a look. “So, do you want Dean back because that’s what _he’d_ want, or because it’s what _you_ want?”

Cas’s indignation was slowly seeping away—but not entirely, so he hadn’t fallen back into his depression, thank God, but was just looking sulky now. “There, you see?” Bobby asked him. “ _You’re_ the one that wants him here. Now, I’m not sayin’ there’s anything wrong with—you know, missin’ Dean. It’s perfectly normal,” he said as Cas started to look less sullen and more just sorry for himself. “But throwin’ yourself into a funk over it—that’s just selfish. You can’t expect him to just drop everything and come back to see you just ‘cause you want him to. You really think he’s gonna do that?”

“No,” Cas muttered, looking into a his glass like he really wanted to toss it all back at once, but he just settled for taking another sulky sip.

Bobby shook his head, a small huff of wry amusement escaping him. “Like I said, boy—nothin’ wrong with missin’ him—but you can’t just sit around and brood all day. It’s ain’t good for you.”

“But I can’t help it!” Cas whined impatiently. “I _miss_ Dean. Don’t you miss Jody?”

Bobby’s cheeks heated, but he wasn’t about to be drawn into that. “Yes, you _can_ help it,” Bobby said firmly, “if you stop thinkin’ about what _you_ want, and think about what _Dean_ wants.”

Cas blinked at him.

“You think Dean’d be happy to know that you sit around all day pinin’ for him like this?” Bobby demanded. “Hell no, he wouldn’t. He’d want you up and about, doin’ your work and helpin’ people hunt. And he wouldn’t want you beggin’ him to come home all the time—he’d want you to be happy that he was out savin’ people. And if you really want to make him happy, and not yourself,” Bobby said pointedly, and Cas looked away, “then you’ll try to do those things—not for _you_ , but for _him_.”

Cas was staring into his lap and wouldn’t look at him. Bobby felt his face getting hot again, but he forced himself to go on. “And—yeah, I miss Jody when she ain’t here too,” he said gruffly. “But you know what I do?”

Cas looked up.

“I just think about all the good times we have when she is here—and how nice it’ll be when I get to see her again.” He took a fortifying drink of his own whiskey. “You just gotta think about the good things, son—can’t spend all your time dwellin’ on the bad.”

Cas didn’t say anything, so Bobby didn’t either and just let him think it out. After a bit he re-opened his computer and went back to work.

Cas stayed in his chair for a few minutes, before he finally seemed to shake himself and stood up. Bobby looked up when he did; Cas caught his eye. “I’m going to go out and mow the lawn,” he said; his voice was quiet but firm.

“Okay,” said Bobby.

“Is there anything else I need to do today?”

“Not that I can think of.”

Cas nodded. “All right; then I’ll come and help you research when I’m done.”

“Sounds good,” Bobby replied easily, and Cas took his last drink of whiskey before squaring his shoulders and heading outside.

Bobby watched him go, shaking his head a little. He didn’t know how long it’d last, but maybe he’d managed to lift him out of his funk. _Will wonders never cease._


	30. Research

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This fic goes into a little more detail about Cas's "research" that he mentioned in Chapter 3 of “[Burning Sky](http://archiveofourown.org/works/984130/chapters/1950793).”

_Set just before “Burning Sky”_

“ _Castiel!_ Get your ass down here _now_!”

There were a lot of things that had made Bobby want to kill Cas over the past four years. Constantly using up all of the hot water, prancing around the house naked, insisting on starching his damn underwear, eating every last one of Bobby’s cinnamon Teddy Grahams before he even had a chance to have any—but _this_. This was the _absolute limit_.

He stood stiffly by the computer, waiting impatiently for that little shit to show up. When he finally did, it did nothing to improve Bobby’s mood, because he wasn’t even completely dressed—would it have killed him to put a damn shirt on? But no, here he was, timidly slinking down the stairs in nothing but his ratty old sweatpants—no doubt he’d been doing nude yoga up in his room. Or, given what Bobby had just discovered, doin’ something a _whole_ lot worse.

Cas had the good sense to look nervous; he knew he was in trouble. Oh, but he had no idea. “Yes, Bobby?” he mumbled, picking at the ragged hem of his pants.

“Get over here,” Bobby growled, pointing at the chair in front of the computer. Cas shuffled over obediently, keeping his eyes cast downward, and he slowly sat down where Bobby’d ordered him to. “Look at that computer and tell me what is wrong with this picture.”

Cas raised his eyes, and Bobby nearly slapped him upside the head when the moron first looked at the damn _keyboard_ before actually looking up at the monitor. And then Bobby saw it—just that very faint tinge to his cheeks because he knew he’d just been caught.

“It’s…” he tried to start.

“They’re _pop-ups_ ,” Bobby immediately interrupted him. “A whole _lot_ of pop-ups. And they’re a whole bunch of pop-ups all about _tits_ and how to make my dick bigger. Now, why don’t you tell me why that _is_?” Bobby continued.

“I…” Cas was floundering, fidgeting and blinking and staring a hole through the keyboard again.

“Oh, you don’t know? It’s because of _this_.” Bobby reached down and clicked the minimized “Browsing History” tab before straightening up again, crossing his arms firmly. “Because you’ve apparently made it your mission to visit _every goddamn porn site on the web_ , you little pervert.”

Cas’s blush had gotten more pronounced; he still wasn’t saying anything, so Bobby just kept going. “Let’s see—I would try and go down the list of things you’ve looked at, but I think it’d be easier to just say the crap you _haven’t_ looked at. Near as I can tell, the only things you didn’t bother with are bestiality, snuff, midget porn, and kiddie porn—and you’d better thank your lucky stars you _didn’t_ , ‘cause if you had, I tend to think that’d be grounds to throw you out of my house—or just call the cops on you.” Bobby leaned down again, resting one hand on the table, waiting for Cas to finally look up at him. “Boy, you’ve got a serious problem here, you know that? What the hell are you doin’, lookin’ at all that? Ever hear of your own room and a dirty magazine?”

Cas was still looking fretful and embarrassed, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. “I was…researching,” he finally answered.

Bobby stared at him. “Researching,” he finally repeated flatly. “You’re telling me that—” He squinted in disgust at the massive list before him. “—gay latex fetish porn involving medical equipment is _research_.”

“I clicked on that by accident,” Cas muttered. “That link was mislabeled.”

“I’m sure it was,” Bobby said sarcastically.

“It _was_ ,” Cas repeated insistently. “And I think they did it on purpose. I sent them a very strongly-worded email.”

Bobby sighed, shaking his head. “Okay, fine—that one was an _accident_ ,” he drawled, “but you expect me to believe the rest of this kinky stuff is research?”

Cas was steadily unraveling a loose thread from his hem. “I was curious about…aspects of human sexuality,” he said.

Bobby blinked, and then blew a breath out, not really sure why he was about to ask his next question. “Cas, is this… _research_ …in some way related to _Dean_?”

Cas hesitated, that familiar look on his face when he didn’t want to answer because it meant he would be breaking the Rules According to Dean. But he finally just nodded slowly.

“Does he _know_ you looked at all this?”

“No…I was just…looking for things he…might like,” Cas finally admitted.

Well, that explained all the how-to videos, anyway. Bobby straightened back up, rubbing his eyes with one hand. “Okay—I am going to tell you right now, _do not_ try this stuff—any of it—with Dean,” he forced out, pointing to the screen. “Just— _don’t._ Because if you do, he _will_ kill you.”

Cas looked up at him, still embarrassed and forlorn and distressed. “Any of it?” he asked pitifully.

“Well, definitely not all that _fetish_ crap you were lookin’ at,” Bobby grunted. “Dean still acts like a damn spaz with you two just…doin’ what you’re doin’ now. You really think he’s gonna be comfortable with you trying to—do _that_ stuff?”

Cas was picking at the string on his sweatpants again. “I…just want to make him happy,” he said hesitantly. “I thought that maybe I could—everything I read said that oral sex is—”

“It doesn’t matter what you think,” Bobby said immediately. No, they would _not_ be having that conversation, absolutely not. Just because Bobby had told him that it was all right to talk about some of this nonsense with him despite Dean’s edict didn’t mean they needed to talk about _everything_. “What matters is what Dean thinks. Sorry to have to say this, but you move at _his_ pace, not yours. Just keep the status quo until he makes it clear you can…try something else. And most of all, Cas?” Bobby added, waiting for Cas to look back up at him. “ _Stop looking up porn on my computer_ ,” he ordered. “This thing is bugged up the friggin’ _ass_ with pop-ups and viruses now, no thanks to you, you jackass.”

“I didn’t know that would happen,” Cas said quietly.

“Yeah, I got that,” Bobby sighed. “But I am serious—no more porn on my laptop. You wanna do that, do it on your own damn computer.”

“I don’t have one.”

Bobby briefly prayed for patience. “I will _get_ you one. I have some old laptops around that still work—think it’s time you got one of your own anyway. You wanna screw that one up and bog it down with all your shit, fine. But _stop_ usin’ mine.” He paused, then continued. “And at least have the good sense to use some pop-up blockers and anti-virus software when you do, ‘cause if you kill it oglin’ skin sites, I’m certainly not gettin’ you a new one.” Bobby heaved away from the table, stumping into the kitchen. “Now get upstairs and get dressed—you’re moppin’ my floors. And I’ve gotta re-format my computer.”


	31. Obligation

_Set between “Up Around the Bend” and “Animal”_

Hot, headachy, not wanting to wake up yet, remembering the unpleasant dream he’d had, and with an erection pressed against his hip.

Not the _best_ way to wake up, Dean admitted. But hey—he’d had worse.

It would’ve been better if Cas had at least been wearing shorts, but no, he wasn’t. Dean had snuck in and slipped into bed without waking him last night, and of course he was naked. No reason to put on clothes in his mind. At least Dean had his own shorts on.

But that didn’t meant the boner was acceptable. Grimacing, he twisted away, scooting his lower half away from Cas’s. Unfortunately, the movement was apparently too much, and he heard Cas grunt softly as he curled a little inward on himself, and then his eyes fluttered open, bleary and unfocused. It didn’t take long for him to blink a few times and finally settle his gaze on Dean.

Dean was too tired to bother trying to not roll his eyes as Cas’s entire face just lit up immediately. “Dean,” he murmured. “You’re home.” He sounded ridiculously pleased about it.

Geez—it’d been less than a month since they last stopped by—this wasn’t anything bad. But no, Dean returned from an extended hunting expedition of any kind and Cas nearly passed out from joy because he’d been so forlorn and deprived. Come to think of it, he had that expression when Dean came home from the friggin’ _grocery store_ sometimes. Idiot.

“Hey, Cas,” he replied, his voice low and rough with sleep, dragging his arm up and clumsily patting his shoulder. Cas hesitantly wiggled a little closer, licking his lips and very obviously looking at Dean’s mouth. Dean rolled his eyes again, but gave in and obliged him, leaning forward to let Cas kiss him—which he did with all speed—and deciding it would be in his interests to kiss him back, screw morning mouth.

Really, where was the fun in stopping at one kiss? So he didn’t, _hmming_ a little and rolling on his side so he could kiss him better. Cas was leaning into it, sliding one arm around him, his hand pressed hotly against his back while Dean idly stroked Cas’s smooth hip. They weren’t kissing deep at all, just soft, gentle ones, over and over now, and it wasn’t long before Cas shifted again, bringing one arm between them, sliding his hand under Dean’s T-shirt and seeking out his ribs.

Okay, fine, he’d…admit to missing Cas a little too during that month on the road.

But he didn’t miss him enough to tolerate Cas moving forward and bumping his hips against his. He still had a hard-on, and one look at the light coming through the window told him that they’d both slept late—and by late, he meant late enough that Sam and Bobby might be awake and moving around. No fooling around, dammit. They didn’t really do that in the mornings, anyway. And definitely not here where Certain People might hear them.

When Cas moved his hips again and he sighed happily as his hard prick rubbed against Dean’s stomach, Dean broke it off. “Hey,” he managed, pulling away, though he bumped his forehead once against Cas’s before he did. “Come on. Time to get up.”

Cas sighed a little, and it was obvious he was a little disappointed, but he didn’t say anything. He never did—and he’d better be glad he didn’t. Dean couldn’t resist reaching around to squeeze his bare butt before he finally rolled away entirely, reaching up to rub his eyes with one hand.

A glance at the clock told him it was ten—a full two hours past when he usually liked to be up and out of Cas’s bed at the _latest_. Well, that’s what he got for driving all day and into the night the previous day. On their last job there had been this small-time sheriff who seemed to think he was the next Dick Tracy and wouldn’t quit hounding their asses all during their investigation. They’d shaken him off for most of it, but when they’d had to break into a local museum to get the obsidian knife that Cas told them would kill the wight they were hunting, he’d nearly caught them, and they really didn’t have time to try to avoid him when they were in the cemetery grappling with the thing. They’d been burning the remains once they’d dispatched it when his goddamn sirens started up, and they’d had to book it out of there.

They’d slumped into Bobby’s place at about three, having driven all the way from Alabama almost non-stop, and both of them had just crashed. Seven hours really didn’t _feel_ like enough sleep after that, but like hell he was gonna sit up here and cuddle with Cas, not with those two nosy bastards downstairs. If he needed more sleep later, he’d take a nap in the back bedroom or down on the better couch that Sam had claimed last night. Shouldn’t feel all that tired, though—not like he hadn’t run for longer on less.

 _Oh, well_ , he groused to himself, heaving himself up and flinging the covers off. The cool air hit his skin immediately and got the gears in his brain working a little bit more as he shivered, putting his feet on the floor and stretching his arms high over his head. He stared stupidly at the floor for a few seconds, trying to blink himself awake, before he shoved himself off of the bed, shuffling over to where his clothes were lying in a pile where he’d left them last night. He slowly shoved his legs into his jeans one at a time, thinking about how he really wanted scrambled eggs this morning; he hoped Bobby hadn’t already installed himself in the kitchen.

“I take it that you and Sam successfully killed the wight you were hunting?” Cas suddenly asked. Dean turned around as he zipped up his jeans, but his mouth twisted when he saw Cas was still lying there in bed, looking very relaxed, his hands folded across his stomach, and while he had the sheets pulled up to his waist, they didn’t exactly hide the fact that he was pitching a damn tent.

“Uh—yeah. We got it,” Dean replied, turning around to look for his sock that appeared to have migrated in the night.

“Where did you find an obsidian blade?”

Goddammit—why was Cas talking to him with a chubby? “Lifted an Indian knife from a local museum,” Dean grunted, finally locating his sock.

“Did that policeman who suspected you weren’t really Federal agents keep following you?” he asked.

Dean scowled. “Yeah,” he muttered, finally locating his missing sock; he must’ve kicked it by accident or something last night, because there was no reason for it to be under Cas’s dresser.

“Do you have any clothes that I’ll need to repair?”

Okay, enough was too much. “ _Cas_ ,” he said deliberately. “Come on, man—we can talk about this after you—you know. Take care of that.” Dammit, you’d think after years of living as a human he wouldn’t be so socially stupid anymore.

Cas looked at him, his expression slightly puzzled. “Take care of what?”

Dean barely managed not to slap himself in the forehead, but he did pause to close his eyes and take a tired breath. “Take care of your _business_ , Cas,” he said flatly, waving a vague hand in the direction of his crotch, and then scooping up his boots and heading determinedly toward the door.

He was halfway across the floor when Cas spoke again. “Do you mean my erection?” he asked, and Dean couldn’t help but wince.

“Yes, I mean your _erection_ ,” he ground out back. “I can’t friggin’ talk to you when you’re—like that. I’m leaving, you can just…take care of it, and then we’ll talk downstairs.”

He risked a glance behind him, and Cas was sitting up now; he looked down at his own dick before looking back up at Dean, confused. “I am taking care of it,” he replied, obviously having no clue as to what Dean was actually talking about.

But, hey, Dean had no clue what _he_ was talking about, either; he was just _sitting_ there—that wasn’t taking care of anything. For a second, Dean was about to go with his default of rolling his eyes and shaking his head and leaving Cas to his own devices; Cas was clueless, ‘cause that was just Cas’s permanent setting, and so Dean was _done_ with this conversation. Except then Dean realized just what he was clueless _about_.

And all the implications that went with what he’d just said.

“Wait—back up,” he said, turning around to face him completely. “What do you _mean_ you’re taking care of it?”

Cas was even _more_ confused now. “I’m waiting for my erection to subside,” he answered, as if it were obvious. “It will eventually go away. Especially if I can distract myself with something.”

Dean was starting to feel more than a little horrified now and he knew it was showing on his face. “Dude, you—Cas, do you do that—just sit there and wait it out _every time_ this—something like this happens?” he demanded.

“Not every time,” Cas said uncomfortably, but before Dean could feel relieved at all, he immediately added, “But most of the time, yes.”

Dean could hardly talk. “Cas, do you—” He blinked, shaking his head a few times to try and clear it. “You do realize you could just—you don’t have to—” Cas was listening very seriously, and Dean stopped for a moment and took a breath before looking up. “Okay, I’m gonna be blunt, here,” he said. “You do know what _jerking off_ is, right?”

Cas nodded.

“Have you ever _done it_ before?” Dean continued, being as slow and deliberate as he could.

Cas looked down and picked at the corner of the sheet before admitting, “A few times.”

“A _few_ —” Dean spluttered before remembering that he needed to keep his voice down. “Cas, it’s been over five years!” he hissed. “And you’re telling me in all that time you’ve only jerked off a _few times_?!”

Cas was staring up at him, looking mildly distressed now, but also confused like he wasn’t sure what he was doing wrong. “Well…yes. There are times when it…” He paused, his eyes cutting away again as he fidgeted, obviously somewhat embarrassed, “…simply won’t…go down…so I have no choice but to—”

“ _No choice?_ ” Dean blurted out, interrupting him. “You look at that as just being _no choice_? Dude, what is _wrong_ with you?! Why the hell don’t you friggin’ give yourself a hand when you need it?!”

Cas gave him a blank look. “But I don’t need it when it goes away on its own.”

“Meaning you just _sit there_ with a boner until it goes away, no matter what, even though a _really_ nice solution is right there at the end of your wrist?” Dean growled.

“I don’t see why that solution is any nicer than just waiting it out.”

Dean gawped at him. “You— _you don’t see why it’s nicer?_ ” he repeated in disbelief. He was just about lost for words, finally managing, “How the fuck can you not see how just sitting there with a boner isn’t nearly as nice as getting yourself off?”

There was a brief silence. “I…just don’t,” Cas finally said. “I don’t…derive any satisfaction from orgasming by myself.”

Now Dean really _didn’t_ have any words. _He doesn’t—he doesn’t tug it because he—_

How many mornings now had Cas woken up here and been hard and just sat there, waiting for it to go away? How many times had he gotten turned on by his little _plethora_ of porn he probably had stored on his computer, but just sat there and been turned on and not actually touched himself?

_How many times did you leave him hanging in the past five years, Winchester?_

_Oh, fucking_ Christ _._

He resisted the temptation to throw his shoes and socks on the ground because that would make noise and that wasn’t an option. Instead, he forcefully put them on top of Cas’s dresser beside that dumb cigar box he had on it and stomped over to the bed, ignoring Cas’s questioning gaze as he flumped down next to him on the bed, shoving him over.

“Dean, what are you—” he started, but he didn’t get to finish because Dean spat in his palm and then jammed his hand under the sheet and seized Cas’s half-hard prick in a tight grip.

Cas sucked in a breath, jumping under Dean’s hand. “Shut up,” Dean muttered, not building up to it at all, just jerking him hard and fast immediately.

“ _Dean_ ,” Cas managed to gasp, reaching up and gripping his shoulder, still obviously startled by it all, “you don’t have—”

“ _Yes_ , I _do_ ,” Dean growled. “Now _shut up_ and let’s just do this.” He reached up with his free hand and shoved Cas back down on the pillows, and wound up getting carried halfway there himself because Cas still had his hands on Dean’s shoulders. Fine. Whatever.

It took very little time for Cas to get completely hard again, and it wasn’t long before he was gasping quietly, his hips rocking against Dean’s hand as he clung to his shoulders. Dean kept moving furiously and kept his fingers tight, pausing only once to spit into his palm again. _Stupid dumbass, making me do this—fucking_ guilting _me into it._ Jesus, Dean couldn’t help but think of all the times he’d just left Cas there, all hot and hard and shivery and sweaty, just _assuming_ that he’d finish himself off, but no, that would be assuming Cas had a friggin’ brain in his head! That’s what Dean got for assuming Cas was, you know, _competent_ , and a _normal human being_.

 _To be fair, he’s_ not _a normal human being._

He huffed in annoyance at that little voice, staring firmly at Cas’s shoulder and refusing to look at him, redoubling his efforts and getting a tiny groan against his neck as Cas buried his face against Dean’s neck, trembling now. He was arching his body up against Dean’s, and Dean knew that he was already close, despite only having been jacking him for a minute or two—which Dean had zero problems with. Less time this took, the better.

Cas’s arms suddenly constricted around him, yanking him closer, and Cas let out a muffled groan right near his ear as his hips thrust hard against Dean’s hand, and Dean felt him coming, getting that nasty shit all over his hand and the sheets, because yeah, this was just the best part of waking up, after all, getting a handful of warm spunk. _Eat your heart out, Folgers_ , he grumbled internally, furiously pumping his fist all through Cas’s orgasm until he finally let out a pitiful little noise that told Dean he was done. He let Cas’s dick go, using the sheet to wipe that crap off of his fingers, and clambered back to his feet before leveling a glare at Cas.

An _impotent_ glare, as it were, seeing as his expression had zero effect on the dazed idiot who was just lying there and looking at up Dean like he was the most amazing thing in the world because he’d just given him a quick and lousy handjob.

“There,” Dean muttered. “Now get dressed and come downstairs.” He grabbed his shoes as he stomped out of the room, and just barely resisted the urge to slam the door as he left.

_Dumbass._


	32. Practice Makes Perfect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This fic expands a little on Cas's newly acquired skill in "[Animal](http://archiveofourown.org/works/998216)." And Bobby is a troll.

_Set just before “Animal”_

Well, no use putting it off any longer. Demonlogy K-through-P needed dusting, cleaning, and restoring. Really, Bobby was kind of ashamed that he’d put it off in the first place. Weren’t no excuse for not making sure his books stayed in good condition—they were books, dammit. They needed TLC if he wanted to keep ‘em good enough shape that they could do their job.

But like hell he was gonna do it alone, not when he had his cabana boy upstairs.

Leaving his glass of whiskey half-finished on his desk, he hove himself out of his chair and made his way to the staircase, smirking in triumph as he ascended it once more with none but the usual aches and pains. Old age could kiss his ass, far as Bobby was concerned. He swung left, scratching up under his cap, and he didn’t bother knocking on Cas’s door, just went right in, ‘cause that numbskull never gave anyone else any privacy, so Bobby’d long since stopped giving him any in return.

“Cas, time to—” _Oh, for the love of Christ._

There was Cas. He was sitting on his bed, the old laptop open next to him, but he wasn’t looking at the video paused on it—no, he was staring at Bobby, his eyes wide and shocked, because he’d been caught.

Caught with a bright green, lime-flavored popsicle shoved down his throat.

Bobby just blinked a few times as Cas quickly pulled it out and lowered it, his cheeks turning a little pink as embarrassment started to creep in. Squeezing his eyes shut, Bobby rubbed the bridge of his nose and counted to five in his head. When he opened them again, Cas was fidgeting uncomfortably, ignoring the line of green his melting popsicle was dripping down his knuckles, unable to meet Bobby’s gaze at all.

_Dammit._

“I’m doin’ maintenance on some books,” Bobby said gruffly. “Finish that and get your ass downstairs and help me.”

And then he turned around and left. No way he was gonna stick around and hear anything Cas had to say. He’d said quite enough already by not saying a damn word.

_Shit._

* * *

When Dean opened the freezer to grab the sixpack he’d stuck in there for a quick chill, he did a double take at the brightly colored box tucked in the door. His eyebrows lifting, he looked inside—yep, it wasn’t lyin’. “Hey, Sam,” he called, a grin starting on his face. “You want a popsicle?”

“A _what_?” Dean looked over at Sam to see him looking up from his computer in surprise; Cas had looked up too and was listening.

“A popsicle,” he repeated. “There’s a box in here.”

“Uh—sure, why not,” Sam said, bemused. “What kind is there?”

Dean peered in the box again. “Red, orange, purple, green, and blue—blue-raspberry, I think.”

“I’ll go with a grape, I guess,” Sam said, looking amused.

Dean grabbed a purple and a red, and as an afterthought leaned around the door again. “You want one, Cas?”

“Lime, please,” Cas said, nodding.

The three paper-wrapped popsicles in one hand, and the beer in the other, Dean bumped the freezer shut with his shoulder and made his way back to the table. He deposited the sixpack in the middle of the papers strewn across the desk and handed off the right flavors to the right people. “Why does Bobby have popsicles?” Sam asked as he tore his open.

“Those ain’t mine,” came the retort from the doorway into the library, where Bobby had just appeared. “Those’re Cas’s.”

Sam and Dean both looked at Cas in surprise. “Cas?” Sam asked around the purple popsicle in his mouth.

“Yep,” Bobby answered as he nonchalantly went right back to his laptop. “He can’t get enough of ‘em.”

Cas was concentrating very seriously on opening his wrapper and wasn’t looking at anyone. Dean smirked. “You got a popsicle habit, Cas?” he asked, licking at the end of his own.

“I’ll say he does,” Bobby snorted. “Damn near swallows ‘em whole.”

Cas’s eyes flicked up at Bobby, his cheeks slightly pink, before he lowered them and took a small lick of the tip of his popsicle.

Dean snorted, and the table fell silent as they all went back to work. Bobby grabbed a beer; the other three were occupied with the popsicles in their mouths. Bobby twisted the cap off his bottle; it let out a hiss, causing everyone else to reflexively look up, all three of them sucking merrily away.

Bobby smirked.

“What’re you grinnin’ at, old man?” Dean wanted to know.

Bobby chuckled. “Nothin’. It’s just a good day.”


	33. Curb Your Enthusiasm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As always, Bobby talks Cas down after the events of "[Animal](http://archiveofourown.org/works/998216)."

_Set the morning after “Animal”_

_God, here we go again._ Even though it’d been a few years since he’d seen it, he still recognized the way Dean was bitchy and jumpy and itchin’ to be on the road again. He’d been relaxed and mellow all week, when out of nowhere, he’d barreled down the stairs at some ungodly hour, dropped his heavy duffle right into the middle of his sleeping brother and startled him awake, and then demanded to get out of the house as soon as possible.

Yeah—just because they hadn’t had one in at least two years didn’t mean Bobby still didn’t spot all the signs that Dean and Cas had had themselves a nice big tiff.

_And now_ , he thought with a resigned sigh as he spotted Cas slinking down the stairs, his face like a wet weekend, _it’s time for me to clean it up._ God, he could already see it: yeah, Cas moped a little when Dean was away for a long time and Cas got to missin’ him, but he was already way beyond that, primed and ready to go into a full-on depressed funk. Dammit, he hadn’t done that in _months_ —not since he and Dean had gone out and had themselves a little date. Well, he was gonna head this one off at the pass if he could.

“He’s already gone,” he said bluntly before Cas had a chance to ask, and then waited impatiently for Cas to slump into the chair across from him and assume his well-practiced dejected pose before he asked, “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” Cas snuffled.

Bobby rolled his eyes—he already knew that whatever it was, it all boiled down to Dean bein’ a prima donna. But, no, Cas wouldn’t take that answer, so now he had to make somethin’ up to placate him. “Well, then why don’t you tell me, and I’ll tell you what it was.”

Cas was knotting his fingers in the hem of his flannel. “I don’t _know_ , Bobby—we were happy and engaging in a sexual act, and then suddenly he was angry with me and left,” he said, his voice tight and distressed.

Bobby scrubbed a hand across his face. Oh, he so didn’t want any more detail than that… “Cas,” he ground out, “even Dean’s not _that_ big of a bitch. There has to be more to it than that.” He pursed his mouth and swallowed before forcing himself to say, “Tell me _exactly_ what happened.”

Cas looked up from the tabletop, his eyebrows all tilted-downward. “I was performing oral sex on Dean,” he said, and it took everything Bobby had to keep his face from showing what he was thinking. “And after we both orgasmed, he got very angry and left.”

Bobby looked at him. “Boy, that still don’t make no sense,” he informed him.

“No it doesn’t!” Cas whined pitifully. “Dean’s never been angry with me for orgasming before—I don’t know why he is now!”

Bobby blinked, a lightbulb going on in his head. “Wait,” he said, looking sideways at him and not at all wanting to hear Cas’s answer to his next question. “When you said that you both—both finished up—you mean at the same time? While you were—doin’ what you were doin’?”

Cas nodded, still upset.

Bobby stared at him. “Okay, boy, that’s just weird— _no_ , I didn’t say it was _bad_!” he yelled as Cas drooped in dejection. “You cut that out right now,” Bobby ordered him sternly. “There ain’t nothin’ wrong with—with enjoyin’ yourself,” he said, his mouth twisting. “But usually it ain’t the one _givin’_ who gets off, is all.”

“It’s not?” Cas asked, sounding perplexed. “But it’s so wonderful, to pleasure Dean like that,” he said, and Bobby had to look away, because he couldn’t keep a straight face after hearing _that_. Luckily, Cas shifted from accidental horror to accidental humor, saying right after, “And all the women in the videos I watched certainly seemed to be receiving sexual gratification from performing the act.”

Bobby couldn’t help but snort. “Those are movies, Cas, not reality,” he told him. “And the reality is that most people aren’t quite that into it—but there ain’t nothin’ wrong with it if you are,” he assured him (although not quite believing that he was doing it). “Don’t worry about Dean—he’s got a bee in his bonnet, but he’ll be fine like he always is.”

Cas’s face dropped again. “I didn’t mean to, Bobby,” he said pitifully. “I was just enjoying pleasing Dean so much…”

Bobby grimaced. “Well, that’s good for you, boy. Just next time, calm down.” He eyed him. “Were you—you know—humpin’ his leg again?” he ventured.

“I don’t know,” Cas answered in a small voice. “I might have been; I wasn’t thinking about that at the time.”

Bobby shook his head. “Well, next time, pay more attention, and this won’t happen.” God, those two were more screwed up than Catherine and Heathcliff. “Now, I know you’re all worried about Dean bein’ upset, but does he ever _stay_ upset?”

“No,” Cas said glumly, “but, Bobby—”

“No buts,” Bobby said firmly. “Dean’ll be fine, and you’ll be fine, and we’ll all be fine. Contrary to what Dean seems to think, this ain’t nothing to be throwin’ a bitch-fit over. Now, I got a call on a case, and it ain’t gonna research itself, so you quit mopin’ and make us some breakfast, and then we’ll get to it.”

Cas still looked pathetic, but Bobby thought he looked slightly less so than when he’d slithered down the stairs this morning. He nodded and got up; Bobby watched him until he was satisfied that he was behaving as he got out the milk and the cereal, and then went in to look at the case notes.

See? He’d been right. Dean was a total prima donna.


	34. Pillow Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's where Dean and Cas actually communicate and manage to resolve any lingering issues from "[Animal](http://archiveofourown.org/works/998216/chapters/1981075)."

_Set between “Early in the Morning” and “Ready for Love”_

Mmm. Dean had really, really needed this.

Well, not _need_. This wasn’t a need. It was a want and he knew it—which still pissed him off, but it was a fact of life now and he was just doing his best to deal with it. But, considering what was going on and how much he was enjoying it, he’d say he was doing a pretty damn good job.

After avoiding Cas for three months after his…accident, that little hump he’d had in the middle of the night had turned out to be a bad idea (one more reason to call Cas a total bitch for being so horny). It didn’t matter that he’d been on the road for three months—coming home and putting all that behind them had apparently been enough to qualify as getting _comfortable_ , and that had raised Cain. He and Sam hadn’t gotten to sit at Bobby’s for long at all—two fucking days, and then they went out on a case and didn’t come home for two more months. At the end of the second, Sam had wanted to take a break and so had bowed out, but Dean was still _itchin’_ , so Sam told him to go on another job and just take Cas with him. And yes, it _was_ just Dean—because _Dean_ was the one who’d gotten comfortable. Sam wasn’t being told to wander, so he could rest for a bit at Bobby’s. Because he was a bitch.

So Dean had hit the road again, taking Cas out for a very routine bone-burning operation. They’d finished the job after barely twenty-four hours, what with Cas’s ghost goggles. And now, since the job was done, that meant Dean could sit back on the couch, his beer forgotten, with Cas sitting astride him, running his fingers through Dean’s hair as he breathed rapturously against his mouth before kissing him.

Really, he was rather disgruntled he wasn’t more off-put by how it’d gone. Cas had been futzing around the room while Dean relaxed, unnecessarily straightening things and finding the tiniest messes to clean up while Dean laughed at him to himself, and then all of the sudden Cas had marched across the room and climbed aboard. Dean had opened his mouth to ask him just what the hell he thought he was doing, but Cas had merely taken advantage of that, leaning down and slipping his tongue into Dean’s mouth, the prick. And, unfortunately, Dean’s body had decided to go on memory. Dean’s body—particularly his dick— _really_ liked the way Cas was grinding against him, and his _entire_ body really _loved_ this position, gettin’ straddled and kissed and humped like this. When it was a _woman_ , dammit! But no, no, his cock didn’t see a difference and for that it could go to hell.

So, if it had to happen, Dean figured he may as well enjoy it.

Dean currently had his hands crammed in the back pockets of Cas’s jeans, and he was having a pretty good time just kneading his ass while Cas kept rubbing on him. Their shirts were both off, and they were both already to the point where they’d had to unzip to prevent some unpleasant chafing. Occasionally, Dean would _mmm_ in pleasure when their cloth-covered cocks would rub against each other, because it was nice. He wasn’t sure how long they’d been sitting here making out, but it’d been so slow and steady that he was pretty sure it _had_ to be at least fifteen minutes. Awesome.

He pulled one hand out of Cas’s pockets and skimmed it upwards over his smooth back, enjoying the way Cas’s muscles played under his fingers, and then he got his hand on Cas’s shoulder, pulling him more tightly against him. Cas arched a bit, his fingers tightening in Dean’s hair, and Dean let him administer a little more CPR before pulling away, reaching up and tugging a bit on his hair, making him lift his chin. Dean took advantage of that, getting under there and licking across Cas’s neck. And when he was done there, he made his way down and was not…too annoyed that there weren’t any tits to bury his face in. It was (mostly) okay, because the noises Cas was making were good enough for him as he flicked his tongue out to tease one of Cas’s nipples. Cas was a real sucker for that.

“ _Dean…_ ” he moaned, and then he moaned again when Dean deliberately arched upwards, pulling their hips together and rubbing them both just right—that felt good. Then he pulled Cas back down and went back to mackin’ on his neck, pondering leaving a few hickeys on him and trying to decide the best spots to do it.

“Dean,” Cas breathed again, and Dean was too busy nibbling up and down his neck and shoulder to notice his tone. As such, he was a little outraged when Cas pulled away, pushing Dean back into the couch cushions and looking at him rather pointedly even as he panted.

“Dean…” he repeated, and then continued, “I…would like…may I…”

Dean stared at him, befuddled and wanting to go right back to what he was doing and on the verge of telling Cas to shut up and yanking him back down to get back on track—or maybe just turn the tables on him and mash him into the couch and teach him a lesson for talkin’ when they were busy doin’ other things—but then Cas looked down at both of their open flies—specifically, he looked at _Dean’s_. He looked very, very significantly down at Dean’s boner, and then looked back up at Dean…

And then his tongue slipped out and wetted his lips as he gazed apprehensively and _hopefully_ at him.

Dean growled, rubbing a hand against his eyes—mostly so he wouldn’t have to look at Cas.

_Fuck._

It didn’t matter that it’d been five months since he’d gotten one. Cas was fucking _breaking the rules_ again, and this time, it was especially bad because it was—it was about _that_.

“Cas,” he ground out, “what did I tell you about—about _asking_ like that?”

There was a pause. “I’m sorry,” Cas said quietly, which didn’t help anything. “But…I was…you got angry the last time. I wanted…”

Dean’s jaw clenched and he kept his hand where it was—now he really couldn’t look at Cas. “I wasn’t— _mad_ ,” he managed. “It’s—we’re— _dammit_ , Cas.”

He flung his arm down and that was a mistake because now he could _see_ Cas, looking forlorn and uncertain, but he also looked flushed and had sex hair from their heavy petting and that was awful. Dean dropped his gaze, and that was _even worse_ —because Cas still had a hard-on and now he was looking at _that_. So he settled for looking at the wall.

“Cas, I—wasn’t mad,” he repeated, forcing himself to talk. “I—it was just—”

His voice promptly failed him because he couldn’t force it anymore. Cas took his silence as his cue, unfortunately. “I…won’t orgasm this time,” he offered up tentatively.

 _Fucking_ hell _._

“That—” That was fucking _ridiculous_ , was what it was, and goddammit, he couldn’t _talk_ like this! Cas was in his fucking _lap_! And he was talking about—about _that_! But he was also looking dejected, so Dean left him where he was and doubled up on his efforts to…talk. “Cas, it’s—I just—” He spluttered for a few moments more before something articulate just fell out of his mouth: “Why do you wanna _do_ that so much?!”

He risked a glance at Cas, and that didn’t last long. Cas hesitated, sitting still, and then he shifted a little which was bad because he was still all pressed up against Dean and remarkably, against all odds, Dean was _somehow_ still half-hard and that felt good. Which was actually _not_ good, given the situation. And then Cas made it worse. “I…enjoy giving—”

“Yeah, I got that,” Dean snarled, cutting him of because he _so_ didn’t need to hear _that_. “I just—dammit, Cas, if you’re down there all the time, what the hell am I supposed to do?! Just—just fuckin’ _lay there_?! That’s—that’s not how it _works_!” he blurted out, frustrated and uncomfortable.

He sat for a minute more before he finally forced himself to look at Cas again, but he almost groaned when he saw that Cas still looked confused.

Almost, anyway, because before he could, Cas’s gaze suddenly cleared and was replaced with…Dean didn’t know what _that_ was. But he didn’t like it, because it was some kind of _joy_ mixed with comprehension and when he got _that_ look, it was usually a bad thing.

“I understand,” Cas said, sounding tender and soppy and _reverent_ again, which _always_ set Dean on edge. “I do. You…” His eyes were huge and shiny. “You…want to reciprocate.”

Dean blinked a couple of times, and then he nearly just booted Cas off when he realized just what he was saying—and why he looked the way he did. But he didn’t; instead, he just went back to staring at the couch and resisting the urge to throw Cas on the floor for being a dumbass.

“Yeah. Fine. Whatever,” he muttered. “Can we—stop talking now?”

“Yes, Dean.”

Dean risked another glance at him, and saw that he was looking back down at Dean’s now almost completely soft cock, and he did that _tongue_ thing again before looking back up at Dean, all hopeful and questioning again.

_Goddammit._

“ _Yes_ , Cas,” Dean ground out. And then, unable to believe he had to actually say this—or that he was going to say it at all—added, “But you don’t—have to, you know— _finish._ Down there. It can be—fuckin’ _foreplay_ sometimes.”

And Cas’s face lit up in understanding _again_ , and then he was gone, dropping down to his knees and tugging away at Dean’s pants, eager and excited and acting like this entire situation wasn’t uncomfortable _at all_.

One half a blowjob and two mutual handjobs later, Dean _still_ wasn’t sure how Cas had managed to recapture that mood. But he had. Dean was grateful for that.

Because that meant they weren’t _talking_.

Dumbass.


	35. Too Much Information

_Set between “Early in the Morning” and “Ready for Love”_

When Cas came wandering down the stairs, wringing his hands a little and looking concerned, Sam knew that they were gonna have to talk him through some new drama—the only question now was what kind it was going to be.

Sam wasn’t surprised—Cas was a worrier. He worried about everything and everyone, and he also had a tendency to assume that if it was a problem that he personally could not fix, it was either somehow his fault that it had happened in the first place, or he just felt terrible _because_ he couldn’t fix it. He beat himself up any time he couldn’t figure out what whatever monster they were tracking was, and he apologized over and over again if brought home the wrong kind of pizza whether or not he’d been the one to screw up the order—he even fretted when Dean was in a bad mood, immediately assuming that he’d done something to piss him off. The only problem with all of his fretting was that sometimes he worked himself up so badly that somebody had to talk him through it.

Sam wasn’t a stranger to helping Cas through his latest panic attack—granted, he didn’t do it often simply because he wasn’t here enough to have a great deal of experience with Cas’s neuroses. But he had stepped up any time he’d happened to be here when Cas was in a snit—hell, he’d talked him through that first morning after he’d been depowered when he and Dean originally started their…whatever-it-was. However, he’d really only played _marriage counselor_ once. The other times he’d taken care of him were mostly walking him through his newfound humanity, teaching him things he needed to know, helping him understand his limits, and sometimes even distracting him from his strange depressions he would slip into—though those had mostly been during the first few years. Now, six years later, as far as Sam knew, they were few and far between. But it wasn’t just his sulks that had eased up—far as Sam had seen, he’d honestly gotten a lot better about pretty much everything.

Still, his experience dealing with Cas was nothing compared to _Bobby’s_.

It didn’t really matter that Cas was eternally devoted to Dean or that he pretty much worshiped the ground Dean walked on or that he and Dean were _profound_ , or whatever the hell he’d said about them so long ago. The plain and simple fact was that Bobby lived with Cas, was around him pretty much twenty-four-seven, and thus simply knew him the best by virtue of the fact that he’d spent the most time with him day to day. Bobby had figured out the best cure for his depressions and always did what he needed to do to snap him out of it (which, more often than not, just involved getting Dean back home so Cas could see him, but Sam had no desire to dwell on that any more than he had to), he’d taught Cas how to take care of himself, and had walked him through his first experiences with almost _everything_ as a human. Simply put, Bobby was the one who took care of Cas, trained Cas, and just…well, for lack of a better word, _raised_ Cas.

So, while Dean and Cas may have been together, Dean had never had to deal with Cas’s day-to-day issues even a _quarter_ as much as Bobby had. As such, Sam was unsurprised to see that Bobby was eyeing Cas, already looking generally resigned. “Something wrong, Cas?” he asked, tapping one finger on the open pages of the book in front of him.

Cas wasn’t really looking at any of them, his eyes cutting to the side instead as he chewed a bit on his lower lip. “I…don’t feel very well, Bobby,” he finally admitted.

_Oh, great._

Okay, Cas had gotten better about his depressions and fits of self-loathing and general neediness, but that was the one thing he had _not_ gotten better about—and that was because Dean was an _asshat_.

Cas was a hypochondriac. There was no nice way of putting it—he declared himself and others ill more often than he should and he usually assumed the worst every time he did, and had been doing that ever since he’d broken his wrist. Sam still remembered his own experience with his broken leg, what with Cas fluttering around him at all times, convinced that somehow, that was going to kill him. He also remembered a few of the stories Bobby told them about Cas’s panics over his latest health issues where he invariably decided he had some rare and incurable disease or, if he really was sick, that he was going to somehow come down with every complication that he could possibly have. And he _vividly_ remembered the time Dean got a low-grade fever and Cas very earnestly suggested that they get Dean into a tepid bath. He remembered it so vividly because Dean just about tore Cas’s head off for it, storming up the stairs and commandeering Cas’s room and locking Cas out for the duration of his recovery.

Yes, Cas was very inventive when it came to deciding just what new horrible thing was going to kill them all—he did not need anyone’s help in assuming the worst.

Dean, unfortunately, disagreed.

He didn’t ever throw out suggestions as to what Cas might have—he wasn’t _that_ mean. Nor did he ever _confirm_ any of Cas’s over-the-top fears, like agreeing that yes, Cas definitely had lymphatic cancer and was going to die in three days. But he sure as hell didn’t _discourage_ it. Dean would nod and look concerned as Cas listed all his symptoms and then tell him that that just sounded so serious and suggest he get a prostate check or a _mammogram_ or something equally stupid. The bastard would then turn around and smirk at everyone after he did it, looking smug and obviously thinking he was just so damn clever. Of course, that just meant he and Bobby would have an even _tougher_ time trying to convince Cas that no, he didn’t have malaria, or that the rash on his legs was just chiggers from wandering around in the long grass, not scarlet fever.

What made the whole damn thing even worse was Cas himself—they often tried to tell him that Dean was just being a prick, but oh, no, Dean was holy and blameless and would never screw with him like that, he was just being _concerned_ and nice to him and looking out for his well-being. Why should he get mad at Dean when he was obviously just as preoccupied with his health as he was?

One look at Dean across the table, smirking around his beer as he took a swig, told Sam that they were about to have another round of trying to convince Cas he wasn’t dying while Dean laughed it up and was a general dick in the background. Jerk.

Bobby was still doing nothing but looked resigned. “What’s your problem?” he prompted, sounding bored now.

Cas continued to look nervous, obviously wanting to talk but seeming hesitant about it this time. Sam found that a little odd—he normally just dumped everything on them at once, up to and including frequency, color, and _viscosity_.

“Come on, Cas,” Dean chimed in, and Sam couldn’t help but glare at him, even though it did no good. “What’ve you got? We can’t help you if you don’t tell us what’s wrong,” he continued, and then shot one of those shit-eating grins at Sam after he did, bringing his beer up to take another swig.

Cas continued to dither, but he finally spoke. “I…I think I might have gonorrhea.”

Now Cas looked fretful _and_ alarmed as Dean promptly started choking on his beer. Sam barely noticed, just staring with wide eyes at Cas, his brain not quite caught up with his ears as he tried to make himself believe that Cas really had just said that—he eventually decided that yes, he had, because why else would Dean be slamming down his bottle on the table, spluttering incoherently.

“You— _what?!_ ” Dean managed, still a little raspy. “Goddammit, you—don’t—”

But then he stopped, locking right up as he stared wide-eyed at Sam, then at Bobby, then back to Sam again, his jaw working furiously the whole time. Sam just looked back, blinking slowly, aware that his mouth was hanging open and his eyebrows were half up his forehead but unable to do much else other than that. Finally, Dean just jerkily stood to his feet, the chair making a loud grating sound as he did, and he stormed out to the garage, taking great pains to slam the door as he did.

Sam was officially at a loss. Bobby, on the other hand, was still just staring evenly at Cas, his expression no different than the time Cas had announced to the room that he had tuberculosis ( _that_ had turned out to be a cold). “You do _not_ have gonorrhea,” Bobby said flatly.

“You don’t know that,” Cas insisted.

“Yeah, I do,” Bobby retorted. “I assume you know how you _get_ that?”

“Yes,” Cas said, his worry going up to eleven. “And—Bobby—” He licked his lips, twisting his fingers a little. “What if I’ve given it to Dean? What if I’ve _killed_ him?”

“Oh, _Jesus_ —” Sam couldn’t help that—it just burst out of him as he squinched his eyes shut, rubbing his forehead. _Dammit_ , of all the things he didn’t want to think or hear about today, that right there was at the top of the list.

“You haven’t,” Bobby replied easily, and Sam had no idea how he was still so collected right now. “And I know this because _you don’t have gonorrhea_. Now, quit making crap up and just tell me what the problem is, Cas.”

Cas shifted his weight, his eyes on the floor. “It’s painful when I urinate—it burns. And it’s slightly opaque.”

Bobby rolled his eyes. “You’ve got a UTI, numbnuts. That show up in your research?”

“Urinary tract infection,” Cas came back immediately, looking a little relieved at first, but it didn’t last long as his eyes suddenly went wide. “I don’t know how long I’ve had this—Bobby, I—I think I’m starting to experience flank pain too, near my back—what if it’s in my kidneys?” The panic was starting to seep in, and it was proof enough that he didn’t need Dean to work him into a froth; he was doing just fine by himself right now.

“It ain’t,” Bobby said, sounding bored and already going back to his books.

“But if it _is_ , I’ll—I’ll suffer renal failure.” Cas was looking horrified. “Bobby, what if my kidneys shut down—I have to fix this _now_ before it kills me.”

“Only thing that might be killin’ you at this point, Cas, is Dean.” He looked back up again from his text. “Think about what you just waltzed downstairs and announced, dumbass.”

Cas was blinking rapidly, obviously trying to figure things out while Sam just struggled to keep a straight face and resist the urge to go hang himself outside—but then Cas looked at him and seemed to understand. And he’d been horror-struck before, imagining his new death, now he just looked miserable. “Bobby…I shouldn’t have—I’m not supposed to—”

Bobby snorted. “No, you aren’t. But you did. He’s gonna sulk for weeks, you know that, right?” Bobby waved a hand at him. “Now, for your information, a UTI ain’t nothin’. Just get back upstairs and lie down—I’ll head out and get the stuff you need for your little problem and have you fixed up in a jiffy. And for the love of Christ, _stay off the internet_. Just go to bed,” he ordered.

Cas fretted in the doorway for a moment, hesitating, but he finally turned and walked towards the stairs, only to pause when he reached the bottom, turning around again. “Bobby, are you _sure_ it’s just—”

“ _Bed_ ,” Bobby said fiercely, pointing at the stairs.

Cas looked more pitiful than a kicked puppy, but he did as he was told, turning and finally disappearing up the stairs and going back to his room. Once he was gone, Bobby rolled his eyes hugely and shook his head before going back to his book once more.

Sam just stared for a few moments, blinking slowly. Finally, it all just became too much.

“Bobby,” he said slowly, “you are way too relaxed for what just happened.”

Bobby pursed his lips, looking up at him. “Ever think that I’m just _used_ to it, maybe?” he replied sardonically.

“Used to Cas’s hypochondria is one thing, but _that_?” Sam demanded.

Bobby gave him a withering look. “Sam, I was the one who had to talk Cas down when he was drunk and whining that Dean was so mean because he just wanted to touch Dean the way Dean touches him, and Dean wouldn’t let him.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Bobby!” Sam flapped his hands, squeezing his eyes shut. “What the—why the hell would you even tell me that?! Did you think I _wanted_ to know that?!”

Bobby just shrugged. “Think _I_ wanted to know that when he told me? Hell no. But not only is this not the first time I’ve had to deal with Cas’s ‘I’m dying’ routine, but I’m sorry to say that it ain’t the only time I’ve had to deal with his boyfriend troubles, either,” he said, sounding bored. He scooted back a bit, pulling open his desk drawer, and, after digging around in it after a second, pulled out a notepad and waved it at Sam, tossing it onto the desk. “Go ahead and take a look.”

After what Bobby’d just dropped on him, he was more than a little hesitant to check out whatever he was showing him, but he decided there was no way it was worse than _that_ news, so he got up anyway and wandered over, picking up the notepad and flipping it open.

The top of the page had a scribbled title—“Cas’s Diseases”. And below it were tally marks—a lot of them.

“Started that after about the sixth time Cas told me he was dyin’,” Bobby said easily. “That was, oh, five years ago. Maybe more.”

Sam’s eyebrows raised as he flipped through the pages. “That’s…a lot of diseases,” he finally said.

“Eh, they aren’t all his. I also mark it down when he thinks you, me, or Dean are dyin’. And that’s more than you think.”

Sam looked at the little notebook for a second more before shaking his head and flipping it closed, handing it back to Bobby, who tucked it back into his drawer after opening it to the last page and making two more marks in it.

Sam cleared his throat. “Well…I think the count might be going down now, if you ask me,” he finally said.

“Oh?” Bobby replied. “What makes you think he’s gonna get a clue?”

“I don’t—but I think things might ease up because I really, really don’t think Dean’s gonna egg him on anymore,” Sam said, smirking a little.

Bobby chuckled. “Yeah, you do have a point.” Then he sighed, staring down at his book for a moment. “May as well pause on this—been interrupted so many damn times now, I don’t even remember where I was,” he grumbled, grabbing his bookmark and slipping it inside before closing it. “Gotta head out to town anyway, get that idjit some meds. And I hope he likes cranberry juice.”


	36. Photo Op

_Set between “Early in the Morning” and “Ready for Love”_

Cas was the only one in the house who was obsessive about his phone.

Either because of on-the-job accidents or just switching phones and numbers to make sure that they couldn’t be traced, Sam and Dean went through them so fast that there wasn’t any point in them getting too attached to ‘em. Cas, on the other hand, did not like doing that—he kept his phones, and he hated having to switch. But really, given what he kept _on_ those phones, Bobby understood why he was so reluctant to switch out or got so upset when he broke one.

Cas used his phone like any other tool on the job—rigorously, professionally, and obsessively. Sam and Dean just used theirs for communication, but Cas went for a more high-tech option (once he figured out how to use them, anyway) once he realized he could use it for note-taking, file keeping, and photos. And use it he did: He took pictures of the crime scenes and bodies and dead monsters, he wrote notes and kept meticulous files of all the things he killed, wrote constant notes on all discoveries and potential aids along the way. Really, Bobby found the whole thing incredibly OCD, but it made Cas happy to do it, so he let him. It’d gotten to the point that Bobby kept him in little memory cards just to make it easier on them all to transfer that data from one phone to the next. Bobby thought it was silly, as they’d been doing fine without the Smart Phone Angel, but he couldn’t deny that it was helpful sometimes.

As such, Bobby wasn’t surprised to come down the stairs one morning to the sight of Cas on his phone, staring at it with more seriousness than Bobby thought it warranted.

“Goin’ over last week’s case or somethin’?” Bobby asked as he came walking up.

Cas glanced up, a little startled. “No—I’m just looking at my pictures,” he replied.

“Mmm—pictures?” Bobby asked, detouring a little and wandering right behind him, glancing down. He snorted—it was a picture of Dean. Of course it would be.

“Not a bad candid shot,” Bobby offered up, and it wasn’t a lie. He was at some bar, just glancing over and catching Cas in the act, but he hadn’t quite realized that he was on candid camera, so he just looked at ease and casual with his beer and burger in front of him. Lighting wasn’t too bad, either. It looked real natural.

Bobby would be willing to bet that the picture immediately after that one would have been of Dean glaring at Cas and telling him to cut that shit out.

“Thank you,” Cas said. “I like this one, too.” He swiped his fingers across the screen and there was another picture of Dean, still in “uniform” and probably chatting it up with a witness across the room (away from Cas, of course, because said witness was a rather pretty girl and Bobby suspected Dean didn’t want Cas to see just how persuasive he was being). “He looks content and happy,” Cas added.

“Yeah, I imagine he would,” Bobby snorted.

“He _should_ ,” Cas insisted. “I want Dean to be happy at all times.” He swiped his fingers again, revealing another photo.

Bobby raised his eyebrows. “Uh…that’s interesting,” he said delicately.

“I like to see Dean asleep,” Cas replied, perfectly at ease, but then defensively added, “And I was with him in bed, so it was all right that I watched him.”

Bobby bit his tongue on the response that wanted to jump out of his mouth, because seeing a photo of Dean asleep on Cas’s phone was dialing up the Creepy Meter. “Well, you…enjoy those. I’m gonna start breakfast.”

“Yes, Bobby,” Cas said complacently, and then went back to his pictures.

Bobby, on the other hand, walked into the kitchen, reaching for the frying pan. _Once a creeper, always a creeper_ , he thought dryly.

* * *

Dammit, Bobby was _tired_ of havin’ to come up here to find his favorite romance novels. Cas was starting to hoard them and that was not acceptable—if he couldn’t keep them in the community bookcase like he was supposed to, he was gonna lose his bodice-ripper privileges.

Bobby growled at the sight of the stack of paperbacks on Cas’s nightstand, and snatched them all up on general principle, grumbling under his breath about thieving angels, when he spotted it.

Cas’s phone.

He froze midstride, staring down at the innocent little device sitting on the night table. He really shouldn’t—it was Cas’s phone. Hell, how many times had Bobby told Cas to stay out of _his_ business? Cas deserved some privacy, and all.

_Hell with that_ , Bobby immediately decided, putting down the books and snatching it up. _He lost his privacy rights when he showed me he’s got pictures of Dean_ asleep _on his phone._

To Bobby’s intense disgust, he guessed Cas’s password after just three tries. _“ilovedeanw?” Seriously, Cas?_ He supposed it worked—there were only two other people in the world who could guess that one. He quickly found his picture folder, and was unsurprised to see them neatly arranged and organized—however, he was a little annoyed to see that Cas was using some kind of arcane system with everything labeled with bizarre combinations of capital letters that he couldn’t puzzle out. He guessed they were abbreviations or something, but that didn’t exactly help him. He sighed, ready to give up immediately, until he saw the three folders near the bottom—the first one being “D”.

He touched the screen immediately and it came up and he knew he’d hit the jackpot. There was Dean—just his profile, taken from the side, and zoomed in close. And he was asleep.

_Dammit, Cas._

Bobby scrolled through the photos, and was appalled to see that he was apparently in the middle of some kind of _photo shoot_ here, because now he was looking a slideshow of pictures of Dean sleeping—all obviously taken at the same time, only from every possible angle. He scrolled through faster, becoming more and more uncomfortable, and then promptly got weirded out because then the pictures switched from Dean’s face all slack with sleep to pictures of Dean’s…shoulder. And his chest. And that was a close-zoom of his nipple. And his other nipple, Bobby guessed, given that that freckle wasn’t there on the last one. There was Dean’s stomach, close-zoom on his freckles, picture of Dean’s chest with Cas’s hand on it, picture of _skin_ , what the _hell_ , and there was a picture of his—

Bobby nearly choked and threw the phone away from him, where it landed innocently on the bed with the picture of Dean’s limp dick still right there for everyone to see.

“You little—creeping— _pervert!_ ” Bobby snarled, picking up the phone with two fingers and squinting as he managed to exit out of the folder, taking care to only drag his fingers on the spots on the screen that weren’t taken up by _cock_ , and was ready to charge down there and confront Cas about this before forbidding him to _ever_ take pictures of Dean again when he suddenly saw the folder beside “D”.

“S”.

“Are you shitting me…” he muttered under his breath, and it was almost as if he couldn’t control his own hands as he touched it and loaded it up.

It took just two pictures for him to find one of Sam sleeping peacefully on the couch downstairs, completely unaware that someone had just snuck downstairs to stalk him.

Cas was officially in deep, _deep_ trouble now.

Stalking Dean was one thing—that was Dean’s damn problem. If he didn’t want to deal with the fact that Cas was a creeper that was his business, but now Cas was doing it to _Sam_? Bobby had _told_ him that wasn’t okay, goddammit! Well, looks like the lesson hadn’t stuck, so now he was going to have to _reeducate_ him—

Oh, _balls_ , there was a folder labeled “B”.

Yes. There was. “B”. Innocent and small, right there near “S”.

_Goddamn trainwreck syndrome_ , Bobby thought painedly, and touched the folder, cringing in advance against what he was surely about to see.

There he was, laughing happily with Jody at the kitchen table. She had her shoes off and one leg tucked up under her, and her hand was stretched across the table so she could twine her fingers with his. Someone must’ve told a funny story. Or maybe it was a story made funny by that bottle of wine on the table next to them. He and Jody, laughing over wine and dinner.

He quickly exited the folder and set the phone back on the table deliberately, picking up his stack of paperbacks again and turning around, marching back to the door.

Nice photo. That was what was on Cas’s phone in folder “B”.

And as far as Bobby was concerned, that was _all_ that was in that folder.


	37. Better Late Than Never

_Set after “Ready for Love”_

“So, thanks again for breakfast, Bobby,” Jody said, smiling warmly up at him before leaning in for a lingering kiss on the cheek. “Here’s to hoping that work is slow and easy.”

“Hey, what’s wrong with a little action?” Bobby retorted, grinning back at her.

“I think I’ve had more than enough _action_ for one day,” she shot back smartly, and then turned and left, waving at him as she went.

Bobby couldn’t help but sigh happily—and _stupidly_ —as he waved her down the drive, and then shut the door on her retreating back. He and Jody usually planned their dates, but that one had been a spur-of-the-moment bit of business. She’d just shown up with a couple of burgers and a six-pack yesterday evening and…things had gone from there. And, as much as Bobby liked their planned dates, there was something about an impromptu evening that felt…more natural. And, incidentally, for some reason made him feel younger.

A creak on the stairs broke him out of his reverie and suddenly made him remember that Cas did still exist—and then made him realize that they’d made their own breakfast and eaten without him.

Bobby scowled reflexively—Cas wasn’t supposed to sleep in late. But he shook off his annoyance—it was a good thing that he had, because Bobby’d been with Jody. No fair gettin’ mad at him when he’d inadvertently done him a favor. He turned just in time to see Cas come into view, and he was a little surprised to see he was dressed in jeans and a shirt already; usually he wandered down in his shorts when he just woke up.

Cas glanced around the room before looking to Bobby. “Good morning,” he said as a greeting and then went into the kitchen and immediately started clearing up the dishes from his and Jody’s breakfast. “Did you have a nice time with Jody?”

Bobby felt his neck heat up and resisted the urge to tell Cas off for that—it wasn’t any of his damn business how nice a time he may or may not have had with Jody. But he didn’t. “Yeah,” he grunted, and then added, “Sorry we already ate without you.” Even though he so, so wasn’t.

“It’s all right.” Cas set the dishes in the sink and then grabbed the pans they’d used to make bacon and eggs and started scrubbing them first. But, once he was done, he didn’t start making his own breakfast; instead, he simply set them and the rest of the clean dishes on the drying rack before turning around to face Bobby again, looking a little concerned. “Bobby?”

“Yeah?” Bobby grunted, going to sit back down at the table and grabbing the newspaper there.

“I would like to apologize.”

Bobby looked back up at Cas, blinking. “Uh—for?” he asked blankly, before suspicion suddenly reared its ugly head. He could think of any _number_ of things Cas needed to apologize for, but he couldn’t for the life of him think of anything that he needed to apologize for that he’d done lately—which was setting off all kinds of warning bells. Unless he was talking about their little spat they’d had where Cas had tried to make Bobby stop killin’ wolf spiders that got into the house _again_ , because he did that every fall when the nasty little shits always came inside to get out of the cold. But Cas did that every year, and never showed any signs of wanting to say sorry for being a snippy bitch over Bobby being mean and killing one of God’s eight-legged creatures. No, if he was apologizing, the it had to be over something he’d just done and Bobby didn’t know about yet, which meant he was about to drop it right on his head— _balls._

“I’m sorry for not understanding correct social expectations regarding the morning after an evening of romantic sexual intercourse,” Cas answered matter-of-factly.

Bobby had nothin’. So Cas kept goin’.

“Three years ago, when you and Jody first consummated your relationship,” Cas said, and Bobby’s face _definitely_ flamed red that time and he was two seconds from telling Cas to _shut up_ , “I joined you for breakfast the following morning. I’m sorry—I didn’t know I was supposed to absent myself so that you and Jody could continue to enjoy your time alone and possibly engage in further sexual activities.”

Bobby still just sat there, his jaw hanging open.

“The concept of a ‘morning after’ was outside of my experience at the time,” Cas went on blithely. “Dean preferred to restrict our interactions to night time. But now I understand—Dean now likes to…‘cuddle’ in the mornings after we have had sex, and when we are in a private hotel room after a hunt, he occasionally likes to initiate additional sexual encounters before we check out. So I am sorry for that first time where I intruded on your morning after with Jody,” Cas concluded, and then turned away and headed for the cabinets to get out his bowl and his box of cereal.

Bobby _still_ had nothin’. He could not believe that had just happened.

_Well. Thanks for apologizin’ for ruinin’ that one morning_ , Bobby thought to himself, standing up to leave the room in hopes of salvaging maybe a little bit of his dignity. _But now you need to apologize for ruinin’_ this _one._

_Idjit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The morning that Cas is referring to is detailed in "[Back to Business](http://archiveofourown.org/works/956334/chapters/1931099)".


	38. Tenant Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This fic goes in tandem with the events of "[I Can't Take It](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1008134/chapters/2002162)." Sam wasn’t the only one who heard. And Bobby is still a troll.

_Set the morning after “Bad Man/I Can’t Take It”_

Bobby put up with a lot, he really did. But there was a point when even he’d had enough. See, Sam had been askin’ for it, going to sleep upstairs when Dean had obviously been planning to get a leg over that night. That was his own fault; what happened upstairs stayed upstairs, and you went up there at your own risk when Dean was home.

But when it didn’t stay upstairs, now—now Bobby had a problem. It’d been funny when Sam came runnin’ downstairs like his head was on fire and his ass was catchin’, but then a few minutes later Bobby heard it too: Cas yowlin’ like a cat in heat, and all the way downstairs—yeah. Time to put a stop to it.

He’d just been coming up from the basement that morning when he heard someone coming downstairs; from the furtive, slinking step, he knew it had to be Dean. One look at him told Bobby he was significantly worse for wear, his eyes all bleary and bloodshot, wincing at the slightest noise—that boy had a serious alcohol problem. He didn’t see Bobby standing there, which was probably for the best, but Bobby knew that if Dean was up, Cas’d likely be down soon enough afterwards.

Sure enough, not long after a very disgruntled Sam emerged from the bathroom and tossed Bobby a dirty look before retreating to the basement, a much lighter, more rapid step sounded on the stair, and there came Cas.

God, he was all but floating down the stairs all airy-fairy, his eyes huge and bright and dazzled. Bobby snapped his fingers—he could just come back down here with the rest of ‘em right now. “Hey, you, lover-boy—get over here,” he ordered.

Cas drifted over, still looking exultant, and Bobby waited until he was sure that he had all of what little attention he had at the moment. “Cas,” he said, looking him right in the eye. “Keep it down.”

Cas blinked at him, looking first confused as Bobby’s words penetrated his haze, and then suddenly anxious as their meaning registered. “Oh—oh, dear—Bobby, I—I didn’t mean to—does Dean know—”

“Dean doesn’t know a thing,” Bobby interrupted him. “And we’re gonna keep it thataway. You just need to keep things quiet.”

“I will,” he said earnestly. “Bobby, I’m sorry,” he added, looking as upset has his little sojourn on Cloud Nine would let him.

The corner of Bobby’s mouth twitched. “You don’t need to apologize to me—you need to apologize to Sam.”

Cas looked very serious. “I will,” he said, and then went floating off down the back stairs.

A few moments of silence, and then a revolted shout of, “Oh, Cas, _no_!” came up from the basement.

Bobby chuckled.


	39. Coming to a Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the events of “[Little Angel](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1008134)”, Dean is forced to face the fact that no, returning the favor to Cas is _not_ a “one time only” thing.

_Set after “Everybody Knows”_

Dean liked Cas’s neck.

It was a good spot to be. He’d shaved, so it was smooth, and he’d caught him after a shower so there was no aftershave smell. Just clean. Soap and clean and smooth skin that, if Dean licked _juuuuust_ right, would make Cas shiver and gasp like a girl.

It was also very, very far away from his dick. And the farther Dean’s face was from Cas’s dick, the better.

But that was the problem, now, wasn’t it? Dean hadn’t come up here just to make out and kiss Cas’s neck. He’d come up here to—

He stopped sucking on where Cas’s neck met his shoulder and just pressed his face there, struggling not to shake at the thought of…trying _that_ again.

Cas was fine with it, of course. Not like he knew what was going on up in Dean’s head. And just so long as some kind of sex was happening, Cas was fine with whatever Dean wanted to do. So while Dean was having a minor heart attack, Cas just petted Dean’s back, sighing happily, shifting a little so he could get one leg out from underneath him and making Dean slide right in between his.

Dean swallowed hard. He came up here to try again. _Sober_ this time, dammit. Because…because he couldn’t keep taking with no give. He just _couldn’t_. Not after the last time he and Cas had been up here fooling around. Not after the most _fantastic blowjob of his life_. And not after Cas had spent the entire rest of the day after that massaging his jaw. Yeah—Cas had pretty much destroyed any resolve Dean had had to never, ever suck it again.

So he was going to do it. Tonight. Just…try again.

He kissed Cas’s neck, starting that back up, and then forced himself to start the trail downward. He kissed Cas’s clavicles, spending a lot more time there than he usually did and feeling Cas’s fingers in his hair while he was there. Then he moved a little bit further down, licking a well-worn path down to his sternum, detouring to run his tongue over his nipples, and then he braced himself and prepared to go lower—

And couldn’t.

He _launched_ himself back up to safe territory, kissing Cas so hard and quickly he felt a tiny pain in his lower lip when they mashed together. He methodically rocked his hips forward against Cas’s, rubbing their cocks together, because if he didn’t do something, his already drooping dick was gonna go completely soft and Cas would get depressed and, even worse, start asking questions.

_I can’t do this._

* * *

Okay. One beer and one shot of whiskey did _not count_. It hadn’t made him drunk at all. Dean had earned himself an amazing tolerance for booze and so this was _not_ drunk. He was _fine_. He was still sober, so he was not breaking his promise to himself. He’d just needed the beer and the shot to…fucking steel his nerves. After all, it wasn’t like he’d succeeded the last time, and then he’d been _completely_ dry.

Yeah. He was trying again. Trying to fucking _suck cock_ again.

He still couldn’t believe he was doing this. ‘Course, he still couldn’t believe he’d sucked cock at all. But he supposed that his determination to make it a _habit_ was the most unbelievable at all.

God. He was delaying. Again. He’d been sitting here nuzzling Cas over and over for a long time, and he was really glad that Cas was stupid because, just like last time, he had no idea what was going on.

Unfortunately, Dean was determined this time—he _wasn’t_ going to run. He’d even resorted to reminding himself that—that he’d faced down countless enemies, each one more powerful and monstrous than the first, so he could fucking face down a _cock_ , goddammit! And, after all, that first night he’d cut and run and what had Cas done? Insisted that he be allowed to go down on Dean and had taken the scenic route until he was sore _again_. Now Dean _seriously_ owed him.

Granted, Dean still had no idea what logic he was using that made him think he owed Cas a fucking _blowjob_ …

He bit Cas on the shoulder in irritation, making Cas gasp, and then decided to just do it. He ignored the twist in his gut and didn’t try the gradual move. Not this time. That was not a good way to do things—it just made him hesitate and gave him time think about what he was about to do and get nice and freaked out over it.

He shoved himself downward, all but flying down there and probably looking fucking _eager_ to do it. He grabbed the elastic of Cas’s shorts and yanked them down off of his stiff prick, and he only managed to half-suppress his shudder when Cas’s swollen cock was suddenly right there in front of him, and he didn’t suppress his shudder at all when he grabbed it and stuck it in his mouth.

And then he immediately pulled it out, jerking away when Cas squeaked in surprise, obviously choking on a _shriek_ , and jerked his hips upward, flailing like a spaz.

Dean could not enjoy that. He couldn’t even be indignant that Cas had just nearly choked him.

Because he’d just put a cock in his mouth.

Now he was grateful Cas had flipped his shit, because it’d given Dean an excuse to take it _out_. _Oh, God, I put it in my mouth._

Dean wanted nothing more than to do exactly what he’d done a month ago—run right back up to familiar and safe territory and _hide_ there. Or better yet, run right out of this room and gargle with 190 proof. But then he glanced up—and saw Cas.

Blood slammed into his cheeks and his stomach twisted because Cas was _looking_ at him. He’d propped himself up on his elbows and was _watching_ , and no, Dean couldn’t _take_ that—it was bad enough he was sucking cock at all— _Jesus fucking Christ I was sucking cock!_ —but to have Cas _watch him_ —

—watch him like _that_ , with that _look_ , comically surprised, yes, but underneath it, he was adoring and amazed and—and _grateful_ —

_Fuck!_

Dean squeezed his eyes shut and lowered his head again.

This was so, _so_ much more horrible sober, and not just because he knew he’d remember _every fucking detail_ in the morning this time. This was more horrible because it was happening _right now_ , and he wasn’t distracted by boozy thoughts and the… _shit_ , the _taste_ wasn’t masked by booze. All he could think about was this—this _thing_ in his mouth, this thick, fleshy, disgusting, _leaky_ thing, and the fact that he was sucking it.

 _Sucking it. I’m fucking_ sucking it _!_

He had to stop again, pulling off and breathing hard, turning his face to the side and hiding against his bony hip, refusing to look at Cas. He didn’t bother trying not to shake, because that would’ve been a futile effort. He was struggling not to just jump out of bed and run, not to mention struggling not to fucking _puke_ , because this was the _worst thing ever_. And it was _enough_ of the worst thing ever. He didn’t fucking care he’d probably only been down here for fifteen seconds, he was going back up to where there _wasn’t_ nasty, dripping _cock_ and he was going to try and recover his boner and fuck the shit out of Cas’s thighs just to drive this out of his head—

And then he remembered all of those times where he’d look down and there’d be Cas, sucking away—looking so worshiping, intent on pleasing him and him alone, and with it _all the way in_ his mouth, his eyes so big and blue as he deep-throated him—

He only managed another thirty seconds. But it was a start.


	40. Contraband

_Set after “Little Angel”_

It figured that the very book Bobby wanted to read right now would be the one that Cas forgot to bring down last night. He’d looked everywhere with _In Bed with the Duke_ before remembering that he’d spotted Cas reading it a couple of days ago, which meant it was probably on his nightstand right now. Well, if he wasn’t done with it by now, Bobby figured he could just start a new one. Hmph.

Bobby reached the top of the stairs and swung a left, stumping his way into Cas’s room. Cas was currently downstairs doing laundry—it was the monthly mass-washing of all of the bedding—so Bobby figured there was no reason to interrupt him when he could just go get the book himself. When he got to Cas’s room and turned on the light, he immediately spotted it—his novel, battered and creased, right on Cas’s night table next to his stripped-down bed. Grumbling under his breath, he went over and snatched it before turning to leave.

And then he stopped when something caught his eye.

Turning back to face the bed, he squinted at the mattress, leaning closer—oh, _dammit_. Cas had torn a hole in it! Bad enough Dean never took care of his things, now he was finding out _Cas_ was destroying his furniture, too. Bobby reached down and tugged at the edges, and then realized that no, this wasn’t an accidental tear—what the hell did Cas think he was doin’? He _cut_ that hole there! The fabric was clearly sliced open with something sharp—that little bastard, he was gonna get it—

Bobby frowned when his fingers bumped something hard in the stuffing. Confusion and curiosity overrode his irritation long enough for him to stick his hand further in to get a grip on whatever he’d touched, and then he pulled it out, sitting up and staring down at the prize he’d just pulled out of the Mystery Mattress.

It was just a clear bottle, over half-full. The label boasted that helped to enhance intimacy, and that its warming formula felt more natural than other warming lubricants.

Bobby stuffed it as deep as he could back into the mattress, clenching his jaw when he felt the bottle bump something else in there. Then he stuck his book under his arm and marched right back out the way he came.


	41. Inner Demons

_Set between "Holy Water" and "Heartbeat"_

The air was crisp and cool as Dean swung out of the Impala, his tie flapping a little in the breeze as he shut the door. He and Cas had just visited the morgue, checking out the two bodies, and now were headed to the house where they’d been found. He looked over the top of the car at Cas, who was bundled up in his long coat, topped with a homemade scarf and penis-hat—he looked so dumb. Dean snorted, smirking to himself as he made his way up the walk to the house with Cas in tow.

It was one of those cases that had potential, but wasn’t guaranteed. Yeah, two people found torn to pieces while there were no signs of forced entry—all the windows locked, doors locked, security alarms still activated—was pretty suspicious and tended to lean towards their kind of work, but there was the possibility that it could just be some really clever son of a bitch. Either way, he and Cas had bundled up and driven all the way out to Coquille, Oregon, almost all the way to the coast, just to find out if it was a human monster or a monster monster—and hopefully in a hurry, given that Cas was on the job. Seriously, the amount of time they saved because of his Ghost Radar…

Swinging under the police tape, he pulled out his lock pick and easily got the door open, and wrinkled his nose when he spotted the mess in the living room. Whoever—or whatever—had done this had obviously been having way too much fun. Dean fumbled his EMF detector out of his pocket; even though Cas could see supernatural scat, he always did a sweep anyway. Cas was staring impassively down at the blood splatters all over the carpet and wood floor, obviously doing his own angel-style EMF scan, but so far, Dean’s machine hadn’t picked up anything weird.

“See anything?” Dean asked, leaning down and sweeping his scanner across the blood.

“I’m not sure,” Cas said, tilting his head and squinting a little. “I…feel something more than see anything.”

“Got any idea what it is?”

“It’s…vaguely familiar, but it’s faded; I can’t sense these sorts of things as strongly anymore.”

“Well,” Dean huffed, “better jog your memory a bit, ‘cause if you sense something, that means—” He froze when his EMF meter spiked—just a little. Running it over the same spot, it did it again. “Bingo,” Dean said, leaning down closer to the spot in question—

His eyes widened. Not caring that he was sticking his hand in old, dried, crusted blood, he scraped his fingers across the carpet. He rubbed his fingers together afterward, sniffing briefly.

_Fuck._

“Cas,” he said tightly, “we’re leaving. _Now._ ”

“What? Why?” Cas asked, confused, but already turning for the door.

“Because that’s sulfur,” Dean ground out. “It’s a demon. And we are getting _you_ as far away from this town as we can before you’re spotted and word gets out to _Crowley_.”

He ignored Cas’s wide eyes and hustled him out of the house, feeling like the entire neighborhood was watching him now and hating it. Once he was in the car, he threw it into gear, cagily glancing around before stepping on it, driving as quickly away from the street as he could.

“Keep your head down,” Dean growled to Cas and Cas did as he was told, sinking low in his seat and wrapping his scarf higher up his neck to the point that his mouth and chin were almost covered by it.

 _Shit. Shit!_ This—goddammit! All he’d wanted to do was get them out on a hunt to try and get things back to normal after what had happened two months ago, and instead, _this_ had to go down. He didn’t think they’d been spotted, but…shit, they’d already been all over town this morning, going to the police station, the morgue—they should’ve done the scene _first_ , now there was—

He sped up once he was out of the neighborhood, trying to keep his speeding relatively low, but he really just wanted to floor it and get the fuck away from this place. He didn’t know if good ol’ Crowley knew about Cas, but he _did_ know that if Crowley _found_ him, he’d set Cas up a nice, private room in Hell. It’d be the best day of that fucker’s miserable life—Cas, completely helpless and powerless, unable to defend himself…

Dean was squeezing the steering wheel too tightly. He had to take his mind off of things—Sam and Bobby. He’d call them. Tell them the score.

He shifted, jerkily getting his phone out of his pocket, and then flipped it open and hit Bobby’s number. The phone rang twice before Bobby picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Bobby—Dean.”

“Dean? What’s wrong—you sound edgy.”

“I am. We bailed. You and Sam need to come take this case.”

“What? Why? You get in over your head _again_?”

“Shut up, it’s not like that,” Dean barked. “It’s—it’s a demon. I don’t know what it’s doin’ here or why or whatever and I’m not stickin’ around to find out—I gotta get Cas out of here. There is no fucking way I’m gonna risk him getting spotted by one of those sons of bitches, because they’ll report back to their _boss_ and you know it.”

There was a brief silence. “Gotcha,” Bobby finally said. “Any hint you boys were sighted before you left?”

“Don’t think so. But we’re on the road now, and just hittin’ the town limits, so good luck to ‘em finding us now.”

“Good. You just keep drivin’ and get your asses back here—or do you think it’d be better to just hide out for a bit? Spend a few more days on the road, just to keep ‘em off the scent?”

“I don’t know,” Dean replied stiffly. “I’ll think about it when I’ve put at least 700 miles between us and this town.”

“Fine. Keep us updated—don’t go radio silence on us or anything, not after this.”

“Yeah, fine. Bye.” Dean snapped his phone shut again, cramming it back into his pocket.

They drove in a very tense silence for a few minutes before Cas finally broke it.

“I’m sorry, Dean.”

His voice was so quiet that Dean had barely even heard him over the engine. He glanced over, frowning. “Sorry for what? This wasn’t your fault. Anyway—Bobby and Sam’ll take care of it. This is just somethin’ we gotta do to keep you safe. Tell the truth, I’m kinda surprised this hasn’t happened already. Demons have been so quiet since then…” Dean trailed off.

Cas didn’t say anything else, so neither did Dean. He just turned onto the open highway and cranked the radio, leaving Coquille far behind them.

* * *

Dean sighed and opened his eyes for the thirty-billionth time, staring up at the ceiling. His eyes had long-since become adjusted to the dark, so he could see the vague outlines of almost everything in the room—including what he saw when he looked to the left: Cas, curled up a ball in the other bed, sound asleep.

Truth be told, Dean had no idea what to do with him right now. The whole drive out of Oregon, Cas had been silent. Dean didn’t know what he was thinking about and didn’t ask, but as they drove, the silence had become more and more uncomfortable because Dean had slowly started to realize that Cas was…getting depressed. He’d hardly eaten anything the two times they’d stopped for food, he hadn’t watched the scenery like he’d done on the drive out—he did _nothing_ , just stared blankly at the dashboard, unresponsive and clearly miserable.

Dean hadn’t stopped to rest until they’d hit Utah, and he’d finally pulled into the town of Grantsville and gotten a motel. Despite it being late, Dean had decided to take a shower, and when he’d gotten out, Cas had already stripped off all his clothes and had just crawled into one of the beds and gone to sleep—and judging by how he was right in the middle of it, he wanted to be in it alone.

Dean had no fucking idea what to do about this. He’d never really had to _deal_ with these depressions—that was Bobby’s line of work. Cas’s serious funks had happened in the first few years of his human life, and Dean had…been busy avoiding him then (and understandably so, dammit), so he just hadn’t _seen_ a whole lot of this. Not the big ones, anyway, like the times Bobby told them about where Cas would just sit in a chair in an angst-coma and fucking _cry_. At least he hadn’t been doing _that_ , thank God, but Dean guessed that this…almost run-in was remindin’ him of the old days and makin’ him think about a whole lot of stuff he shouldn’t be. But hell if Dean knew what to do to make him _stop_.

Huffing irritably, Dean rolled over, facing away from Cas and dragging the sheets with him. Fine—if Cas wanted to be in a _depression_ , then—it wasn’t like Dean _wanted_ him to be in one, but they’d hurry home so Bobby could snap him out of it. Because Bobby always did—this hadn’t ever been Dean’s job.

Personally, Dean didn’t think this was anything to _be_ depressed about. Scared, maybe, because if Crowley got his hands on Cas, there would be literal hell to pay, but depressed? That was just—it was _ridiculous_ , was what it was. He hadn’t had a genuine angelic depression in _years_ , as far as Dean knew! If he was just getting all pathetic because they couldn’t solve the case and had to leave it behind, that was even dumber—Sam and Bobby had already agreed to take care of it.

Well, whatever. Dean was gonna go to sleep. It was past three in the friggin’ morning and he’d driven over thirteen hours _and_ check-out was at eleven. He’d…worry about Cas then.

Dean was pretty sure he’d eventually dozed off—otherwise, he wouldn’t have flown out of bed like he did when Cas screamed.

He had the demon blade out from under his pillow and his gun drawn immediately, whipping around wildly and ready to slash or shoot any enemy that had somehow, against all odds, found them and had Cas, but it didn’t take him long to see that they were still alone and it was just Cas—Cas still asleep but thrashing in the sheets, his cries horribly choked— _Jesus Christ, not one of those again—_

“ _Cas!_ ” Dean practically threw the knife and gun down on his bed and then rushed to Cas, grabbing his flailing arms and holding him still. “Wake up, dammit!”

Two hard shakes was all it took and Cas’s eyes flew open, huge and terrified and panicked, and the second he saw Dean, he suddenly lunged forward, flinging his arms around Dean and yanking him down to him, his grip constricting tightly as he buried his face in his chest. Dean fell on him, grunting as he did, but before he could even register what was going on, he could hear Cas whispering words, over and over—

“I’m sorry, Dean— _I’m so sorry, I’m sorry_ —”

Dean’s heart contracted painfully even as he grit his teeth, fuck, Cas sounded so _broken_ again— “Cas, it was a dream, it’s okay—” he managed, trying to pry him off of him so he could look at him and calm him down, but Cas’s arms were like a vice. Goddammit, Dean had never had to—had to _deal_ with one of Cas’s nightmares, so he had no fucking clue what to _do_! He could not take this—Cas just saying he was _sorry_ over and over again—

“I—I didn’t—Dean, I’m—”

“ _Cas_ , would you _look at me_?!” Dean snarled, finally yanking his arms off of him and getting a grip on his shoulders, shaking him into silence before pushing him down into bed again. “ _It’s fine._ That shit happened eight fucking years ago, it’s _done_ , and we’re all fine. _Calm down._ ”

Cas just stared up at him for a few seconds, his eyes watery, but then he squeezed them shut and just kind of went limp, his hands falling away from Dean as he laid there. Dean’s chest squeezed again, and he couldn’t help it—he just gathered Cas up in his arms, pressing his face against Cas’s neck. He just held him for a moment, listening to Cas’s labored breathing slowly starting to slow, and then he heard Cas whisper brokenly, “I’m sorry…I…I love—”

But before he could finish, Dean just kissed him—to make him be quiet, if anything, because he couldn’t take that. Not right now. Not after—no. He just _couldn’t_. He could taste the salt from Cas’s tears, and Cas’s chest hitched as he kissed back, desperate and messy, reaching up to cling to Dean again.

Dean wanted to tell him that it was okay. He wanted to pull back and tell him to stop being such a dumbass and to calm down because everything was fine, it was just a dream, they were okay, that was the past, and they were now in a motel in friggin’ Grantsville, safe and alive and _fine_ , but he couldn’t because Cas just kept kissing him, his fingers knotted in Dean’s hair, his breath hot and frantic against Dean’s mouth. He wasn’t entirely sure when Cas managed to pull him fully into bed with him, just like he wasn’t sure when Cas’s desperate kisses started becoming simply _urgent_ , but everything was starting to get confusing because now he was between Cas’s thighs and didn’t know how that had happened, either. But it had, and Cas’s hands were everywhere, not really caressing as much as just _touching_ , feeling every part of Dean that they could, and Dean was returning the favor, his hips rocking forward to meet Cas’s, and Jesus Christ, they were both getting hard—and Cas just kept _clinging_. He wouldn’t let go, and his panting almost sounded like sobbing sometimes as he squeezed and stroked whatever he could reach, and then Dean felt Cas pushing at his shorts, trying to get them off of his hips.

He went with it, just letting Cas do it, because he knew what he wanted—what he _needed_ , and that was okay, so once his shorts were down enough Dean thrust forward again and their cocks bumped together, and Dean reached down and got his hand around both of them, keeping them that way. Cas made a soft noise that might have been a moan when Dean started moving, and he thrust up against him as well, his fingers digging hard into Dean’s back as he pressed himself up against Dean, every inch of him, his lips on Dean’s pulse.

Cas’s little sounds were choked and frantic, and Dean could tell he was coming up fast even though he himself wasn’t, but it didn’t matter—he kept going, tightening his grip, biting down gently on Cas’s shoulder before licking up his neck and sucking softly at Cas’s pulse, and then he managed to get his other hand in between them when Cas’s movements started losing their rhythm and pressed right there, right on Cas’s heart—

Cas arched up against him with a quiet cry, and Dean could feel him coming between them, and he was just saying his name, over and over, refusing to let him go, and Dean could tell he was crying again, but it didn’t matter—he just kept his hand moving, breathing softly against Cas’s throat, his eyes closed while Cas bucked and thrashed and sobbed.

When he finally stopped, Cas slumped, still keeping his arms tight around him and quivering helplessly, and his chest kept hitching as he struggled to get control of himself. Dean slowly uncurled his fingers from their cocks, his still hard, but it didn’t matter—if he really needed to, he’d jerk off later. Instead, he just let his weight press against Cas, but not enough to smother him or something, and he wrinkled his nose a little when he felt the hot spatters of spunk between them start rubbing on his stomach, but he’d deal with it later. He had other things to worry about right now.

After thoroughly wiping his hand off on the sheets, he reached up and gently stroked Cas’s hair, pulling back to softly kiss him and then just stayed where he was, his lips barely brushing his. Cas didn’t move, and Dean was relieved to see that—meant he’d finally, _finally_ calmed down. Only then did he open his eyes again, and there was Cas, looking back, his eyes all red-rimmed but not looking as absolutely _miserable_ as they had before, and while Dean could tell he was still hurtin’, it was in a way that Dean could handle. He wasn’t—wasn’t in the throes of one of those fucking _depressions_ anymore.

Dean decided that now was a good time to stop lying in Cas’s spunk, and was about to move when he hesitated. He felt stupid doing it, but he couldn’t help it. “It’s okay, Cas,” he said gruffly, and that turned out to be a mistake, because Cas just pulled him right back down, hugging him tightly. _Dammit._

But he let him. Better than than…well. It was just better. But he was only getting a few more minutes of it, because this was starting to get gross. Least it was taking care of his boner in a hurry.

He finally pushed himself off of Cas when he had gone completely soft, grimacing at the horrible _tacky_ sensation on his stomach. He seriously wanted to get up to wash that off, but caught sight of Cas’s face and decided against it. Sighing a little, he grabbed the corner of the sheet and used it instead, scrubbing himself off as best he could before tugging his shorts back up. He waited until Cas did the same to his own front before he slid under the blankets with him, and resisted the urge to roll his eyes when Cas all but _scrambled_ over to him, getting right up against him and immediately leaning his head against Dean’s chest, right there on his heart. Again, Dean let him, stroking a hand up and down his back, not looking at anything in particular. Jesus, he didn’t even want to know what time it was right now…and he so didn’t want to book this motel for another night, but if he was so tired he couldn’t keep his eyes open on the road tomorrow, they’d fucking _have_ to.

He jumped a little when Cas’s fingers were suddenly sliding under the elastic of his shorts, going right for his dick. “Hey,” he managed, fumbling down to grab his wrist. “What—you don’t have to do that.”

Cas just looked up at him, not looking confused or anything like that, just _needy_. “I want to. Please.”

And there was that _look_ , and Dean swallowed and let him go, and then shut his eyes and flopped his head back against the pillow when Cas’s hand was on his limp prick, squeezing and teasing the way he always did to get him up in a hurry, and that combined with how he had already been hot and bothered from before pretty much did the trick. Once Cas had pushed his shorts down off of his cock again, he just leaned his head against Dean’s chest again and started in, not slow or teasing anything, just right to business, and Dean focused on the awesome friction down there, the heat building again in a hurry.

It didn’t take long—but Dean hadn’t really wanted it to, and didn’t much care it had to have been maybe a minute or two at best. He let Cas wring it out of him, thrusting against Cas’s hand and grunting thickly and gasping when he came, Cas jerking him hard and fast through the whole thing, and Dean could feel Cas’s mouth pressed against his ribs as he breathed hard with him. And when his hand slowed and went loose, Dean went loose with it, keeping his eyes closed as he finally stopped twitching.

He only lay there for a minute before pushing at Cas a little, even though he clearly didn’t want to move—Cas could just deal with it this time, because he so wasn’t gonna lay there with his own jizz on his stomach because Cas, as usual, hadn’t caught it. Sighing irritably as he used the same corner of the sheets he had before, he cleaned off _again_ before laying back down, getting onto his side and pulling Cas over to him. Cas came back over to him immediately, tucking himself up under Dean’s chin as he pawed at his chest, and Dean just lightly petted his back, sliding one of his knees between Cas’s before finally settling down more comfortably and closing his eyes. He felt Cas completely relax shortly after that, and was glad when he didn’t try to say anything else.

Cas must have worn himself out; his breathing was already going slow and deep. Sleep was already tugging Dean down too; he figured that they could both sleep in tomorrow and be fine for the drive. They needed to get out of here, get Cas back to Bobby’s house so he could lay low. If there was even a chance that demons were prowling around looking for Cas, it probably wasn’t a good idea to stay for too long in one place.

But Dean was glad they’d stopped for the night all the same.


	42. Reality Check

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This fic explains just what Cas expected to happen when he talked Dean into sex in "[Heartbeat](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1023745/chapters/2037195)."

_Set just after “Heartbeat”_

Okay. Somethin’ was up.

Dean scurryin’ around and hidin’ wasn’t _too_ suspicious. He sometimes still did that, even after all these years—particularly if he and Cas had decided to _experiment_ and try a little somethin’ new. Bobby certainly remembered Dean hiding after he’d gotten drunk and gone down on Cas for the first time (both because of all the racket he’d heard during and because of Cas’s raptures on the subject later). However, when that happened, it was _always_ accompanied by Cas floatin’ around the house in a daze because he thought Dean was the most perfect being in all creation (also like he had that first time he’d gone down on him, hence the raptures).

That’s how it worked. That’s how it _always_ worked.

Except it wasn’t working like that today.

Really, it was Cas’s behavior that raised the antenna, and once Bobby noticed that, he started noticing that even Dean was actin’ a little off, too—Bobby didn’t think he’d seen the idjit that jumpy and furtive since the first time he ever fooled around with Cas nine years ago. But right now, Bobby wasn’t too inclined to be worried about Dean’s tender feelings—not after hearin’ all of the details of his and Cas’s big fight six months ago, the goddamned jackass. Just ‘cause he’d sent Sam up there to sort them out didn’t mean he hadn’t sat Cas down after the boys left and had a nice heart-to-heart about it (which left Bobby wanting to kick Dean’s ass and whup Cas upside the head for good measure). Yeah, Dean wasn’t his concern right now—he was jumpy, but the only thing different there was degree—and even that was nothing new. It was Cas who was actin’ strange.

Cas was not floaty, dippy, dreamy, or even content. He’d been losing himself in thought again, yeah, but not the usual way—he was spacin’ out because somethin’ was eatin’ him. It wasn’t full-blown depression, but Bobby could definitely tell he wasn’t happy about something, and it definitely had everything to do with Dean’s spaz attack—because he’d seemed pretty much fine when they first got back and he didn’t start gettin’ maudlin until he spotted Dean skulking around.

And, because Bobby was actually just as big a sucker as Sam was, he was now gonna sit Cas down and find out just what was goin’ on.

Sam and Dean weren’t home. Sam was takin’ the day to himself and had headed on down to the local bar to have lunch and chat with a friend of his, and Dean was hiding. Of _course_ he was hiding—just ‘cause he wasn’t entirely sure what was going on, Bobby _did_ know for certain that it had to be related to whatever patty-fingers they’d been up to on this latest job-cum-date of theirs. Which Bobby didn’t want to hear about, but given that he’d been hearing about it for anyway nearly all of those nine years, he was almost used to it. So, after steeling himself with a shot of whiskey, he walked into the kitchen where Cas was finishing the dishes in a rather desultory fashion.

“Cas, when you’re done, sit down,” Bobby said without preamble. Cas turned around to look at him, and Bobby could tell from that eye-tilt of his that he was definitely still unhappy. Bobby sighed and added, “I wanna talk with you.”

Cas just nodded, and he took his time finishing the dishes. Bobby knew that when he took forever like that, he wasn’t doing it intentionally—he was lost in thought and it was _bad_ thought. But Cas eventually set aside the last fork and came wandering over, settling down in the chair opposite of Bobby.

Bobby sighed. “Okay, Cas,” he began. “I know something’s wrong. What happened?”

Cas stared at the tabletop, looking concerned and mildly depressed the whole time. “I’m…not sure, Bobby,” Cas answered quietly.

Bobby rubbed his forehead; why did Cas _always_ do that? “So just tell me exactly what went down between you two on this job, and we’ll figure it out,” Bobby said.

Cas was picking at the hem of his shirt. “Dean and I…had sex. For the first time.”

Bobby lowered his hand with a loud _thunk_. “What?” he asked flatly, unable to believe he’d just said that. Because _first time_? Was he even _serious_?!

Cas looked up and a brief look of understanding flickered across his features. “Penetrative sex,” he clarified. “Anal intercourse.”

Bobby’s eyes widened, and he made an active effort to not let his jaw drop.

_Oh._

“Okay. Hold on,” he managed, and then got up again, walking straight to the liquor cabinet. He pulled out his whiskey again and brought it to the table, detouring for two of the clean glasses that Cas had just taken care of. He set everything down and poured them half-full each before plopping back down in his own chair. He took another fortifying swig while Cas took a tiny sip just as Bobby had trained him, and then, after counting to five in his head, Bobby spoke again. “We’re gonna…just stop for now, and before we try to…figure things out, I want you to answer a couple of questions for me.” Bobby took a deep breath, closing his eyes briefly. “Did…” _Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I’m actually asking this._ “Did he hurt you?”

Cas looked up. “Nothing beyond what would be normal for the situation. It hurt maybe…a little more than I expected, but did anticipate some pain,” Cas replied quietly. “There was very little bleeding, and I felt almost nothing in the morning.”

Bobby ground his teeth together. “What do you mean, little more than expected?”

“Just…inexperience, I believe.”

Bobby eyed him. “Okay. Fine. Now—are you okay? And I mean— _okay._ Physically,” he said, waving vaguely in his direction.

Cas just nodded. “I’m all right.”

Bobby blew out a breath. _Great. Least_ that’s _not as bad as it could be._ But now, it was time to tackle the other problem. “Okay. It’s good you’re…not hurt.” It was _really_ good he wasn’t hurt, because that would’ve meant Bobby would’ve then had to go find _Dean_ and tell him that it’s not good to friggin’ _pound your boyfriend in the ass_ the first time you’re doin’ that, because not only was the prospect of that enough to make him want to shoot himself in the head, but he didn’t even want to _imagine_ what Dean’s reaction would be. “So…what’s eatin’ you, Cas?”

Cas didn’t answer immediately. He picked some more at his shirt, obviously trying to figure out how to put it into words. “I just don’t understand why…Bobby, I think I did something wrong.”

Bobby nearly growled in frustration. “What _kind_ of wrong?”

“It just—it wasn’t what it was…supposed to be.”

 _Aw, hell._ “What, exactly, were you expecting?” Bobby sighed, even though he already had a feeling he knew the answer.

“It…wasn’t good, Bobby. And I don’t mean that it…hurt. It did, but knew it would. But—but I don’t think Dean enjoyed it, and I…didn’t enjoy it very much, either.” Cas seemed almost ashamed to utter such blasphemy.

Bobby rubbed his eyes. This was just _perfect_. “Cas,” he began tiredly, “bad sex happens. And a whole lot of the times, the bad sex happens on…first times. You don’t know what you’re doin’, you don’t know what to expect, and sometimes you…have unrealistic expectations of what’s gonna happen,” he finished pointedly.

The point completely missed Cas, because he was shaking his head. “That’s not true,” he insisted unhappily. “Every time Dean and I have tried a new sexual act, it has been beyond wonderful. The first time Dean touched me that first night, it was…it was the single most incredible moment of my _existence_. And every time after, it’s been…” Cas trailed off, looking down at the tabletop and sipping his whiskey again.

Bobby just stared at him. _Well, shit._ He knew Cas thought Dean was amazing and thought the sex they had was great, but now it was…even worse. Because Cas had just told him that he’d _never had bad sex_. Or even _mediocre_ sex. Because he was _weird_ on top of stupid.

“Okay, that’s really great for you,” Bobby answered. “I’m…glad that you’ve managed to go so long without ever having a bad time of it. But the fact is that you _did_ , and it…does happen. You didn’t do anything…wrong. It was your first time for that, and neither of you…really knew what you were doin’, so yeah, it hurt and nobody enjoyed it much.”

Cas looked up at him pitifully. “Bobby, the pain was supposed to be subsumed by passion.”

Bobby’s jaw dropped. “ _What?!_ Oh, for the love of—” Bobby slapped his forehead because now he _really_ got it. He poured another drink, ignoring Cas’s pout and slight indignation that Bobby would react in such a way to his _profound_ statement, and after he downed it, he leveled a very serious look at Cas. “Okay, I know what one of your problems is, and I’m gonna fix it right now: you have been reading way, _way_ too many of my crappy romance novels.” He scowled. “Not to mention those crappy _gay_ romance novels you’ve been buyin’ on the side. Cas, what are romance novels?”

Cas blinked, looking confused. “They are…words, printed on paper and bound in a cover,” he answered slowly, as if he was afraid it was a trick question.

“Right. Just words on paper. _Stories._ They’re friggin’ _stories_ , Cas. And what are stories?” He didn’t bother waiting for Cas to answer him, because he knew he’d just take him literally again. “They’re _fiction_. They’re _made-up_ , and they’re _unrealistic_. This is reality, and in reality, _that doesn’t happen_.”

Cas was picking at his shirt again. “That doesn’t make sense. So much of our sex is…like what the books describe, so I don’t understand why this time wasn’t,” he said quietly.

“Well, you weren’t the only one involved, here,” Bobby huffed. “You just said it was bad for Dean, too—he was probably part of the problem. Whose idea was this, anyway?”

Cas looked shamefaced again. “Mine.”

Bobby rolled his eyes. “Yeah, how’d I guess. And just what did Dean have to say about it, when you brought it up?”

“He—he wasn’t very happy,” Cas replied, sounding even _more_ miserable. “He seemed angry when I first suggested it and then he left and was away all day. But then he came back, Bobby,” he said, looking up with the big confused eyes. “He came back and he had condoms and personal lubricant, so I thought he had changed his mind. And _before_ we had intercourse, it was amazing.” Bobby was a little relieved to see Cas light up a bit, but his dreamy look didn’t last but a few seconds. “But then…Dean did not look happy when it was time for him to penetrate me, and when I looked back at him during the act, I don’t…I don’t think he enjoyed it. He—he orgasmed, but…but he seemed very agitated and distressed after we were done and all through the next morning. And now he’s obviously very upset, and I think it’s because he’s still…unhappy with what we did.”

Bobby sighed and reached over to top off Cas’s drink for him before pouring himself one more. “Well, that clears things up a bit,” he told him, and Cas looked hopefully up at him. “Cas, we’ve been over this before, but I’ll remind you again.” He took a swig from his own glass. “Dean…he _loves_ you. We both know he does, right?” He waited for Cas to nod. “Dean loves you up here—” he waved to his head and tapped his chest— “but the rest of him sometimes has to catch up. Remember that time you told me about how you tried to…” He wrinkled his nose. “…tried to touch him and he…couldn’t keep it up?”

Cas nodded, looking wretched just thinking about it.

“Well, it’s the same thing I told you then. He does love you, Cas. He’s friggin’ _crazy_ about you. Hell, the fact that he even did that with you at all is a testament to that. But the fact is you’re still a guy and Dean…Dean doesn’t dig guys.” Bobby was rather hesitant to say that, especially after the Big Bang six months ago, but he had to—because that was just how it was. But that wasn’t the end of it, so he added the part that mattered. “He just has to _get used to it_ , and because he loves you, we both know he _will_ , because he always does. This is just another new thing that he’s not quite ready for—but one way or another, he’ll work through it. Things worked out fine with you givin’ him a hand, didn’t they?”

“Yes,” Cas said quietly, starting to look more thoughtful than depressed.

“Well, there you go. You just gotta give him _time_ , Cas. You gotta let him get used to it, and you can’t just—just _spring_ that stuff on him,” he added forcefully. “Hell, you told me he fell out of bed when you asked if you could—go down on him.”

“But he enjoyed that.”

“Yeah, well, this one is a little more serious and just gave him a little more trouble, is all,” Bobby grunted, squinting a little. “Be patient. That’s what you angels are supposed to do best, Cas. I’m sure when he’s calmed down, you can bring it up again—and in a way that won’t freak him out like you did this time.”

Cas didn’t respond; he just kept sipping his whiskey, and Bobby eyed him a little bit longer, gauging his mood. When he decided he was now looking far more pensive rather than upset, he got up and pulled the usual out of the cabinet—the snickerdoodles. He just set the package down in front of Cas, since it was only a quarter-full, and left him to his own devices.


	43. Sabbath

_Set after “Heartbeat”; May 19th, 2022_

Bobby sincerely doubted that Dean remembered the exact day that he and Cas had had their epic showdown in Agar and wound up kissin’ after it. It wasn’t just because he knew Dean wasn’t the type to remember any kind of anniversary or important date—because he so wasn’t. It was mostly because Dean had spent the first three months afterward snarling that he didn’t remember a thing about what had happened and that he didn’t want to talk about it.

Bobby hadn’t bought that—neither had Sam—but they’d decided to play along and pretend for Dean’s sake. Dean had been under enough stress at the time. But, despite the fact that he and Cas had settled into a nice routine and were now really happy with each other, Dean had spent so long actively _denying_ the truth instead of just quietly hiding it like he did now that Bobby reckoned he had pushed that date and everything that happened right out of his mind and had forgotten it _on purpose_.

Bobby, on the other hand, _did_ know the date. It was May eighteenth, and the only reason he knew it was because of Cas.

Dean may not think the eighteenth of May anything special, but Cas actually _did_ keep that date. Cas made it clear that he wanted to be alone for most of the day when it finally rolled around. The first couple of times that date had popped up, Cas had spent all day in his room and what little Bobby had seen of him hadn’t been too pleasant—he’d been depressed, and no amount of trying to talk to him had snapped him out of it. However, after he and Dean had started bein’ more… _intimate_ , Cas instead started spending the day in a pensive, almost reverent state. Still wanted to be alone, though. These days, he would spend the entire time out in the little garden that Bobby had let him set up a few years ago out back on the edge of the woods. He’d wander out there after breakfast and only show back up for lunch and dinner, eating silently before retreating back out of sight into the trees and finally come inside late at night, sometimes even after Bobby had gone to bed.

Bobby let him. It was only one day, after all, and it _was_ a big deal for him. Bobby himself tended to be quiet and reserved on the day he lost Karen. He wasn’t going to be a bastard and deny Cas some alone time on the day he both lost everything and _got_ everything all at the same time.

This year, however, it’d been different. Every time previous, Sam and Dean had just happened to be gone when the day rolled around. But by chance, for the first time since the big day, both of the boys were here, just stopping by for a brief rest. And Bobby knew exactly how Cas had spent his time.

He’d still been quiet, yeah. But he’d followed Dean around like crazy, nearly as bad as it’d been the first time Dean had come home after Cas had realized he’d fallen in love with him. Not as bad, though, because he’d gotten subtle about it. Dean would move into a particular room, and then suddenly, Cas would come drifting in because he’d suddenly realized _well, lookie there_ , a task in the exact room where Dean in that needed taking care of. Whether it be a chore or Cas deciding he wanted to read at the kitchen table where Dean was drinkin’ a beer instead of on the more comfortable couch, there it was. No starin’ a hole through him this time, at least, or creepin’ on him when he took a nap upstairs, but both Sam and Bobby knew what he was doin’ (Dean, of course, didn’t, because he was about as smart as your average peanut). And then, of course, this morning, Dean had come _swaggering_ down the stairs like he owned the place, whipping up a generous spread for breakfast and making smartass remarks throughout while they ate—and Cas had gazed tenderly and _worshipfully_ at Dean the whole time.

God, Bobby had no clue why he put up with those two.

Dean had still been struttin’ around when he and Sam had decided to go pick up something for lunch. Dean had decreed that he wanted a fat, juicy burger with cheese and extra bacon from his favorite joint in Sioux Falls, despite the fact that it was over on the other side of town. But Bobby wasn’t complaining—he’d just put in his order for pulled pork while Cas had asked for a regular hamburger and fries. After that, Sam and Dean had headed out, leaving Cas and Bobby home to set the table and wait for grub.

“You doin’ all right, Cas?” Bobby asked out of habit—he always asked if Cas was okay the next day after his…whatever it was he did on May eighteenth.

“Yes,” Cas said, sounding very content as he unnecessarily straightened the napkins he’d set out before going to the fridge to get out some condiments.

Bobby’d known he would be—after all, _Dean_ was way too proud of himself this mornin’, meaning it _had_ to have been a good night last night. “Good to hear,” he grunted, and then sat down at the table to read while he waited for Sam and Dean to come back.

But he couldn’t really focus on the words, because the more he thought about it, he realized that on this day ten years ago, he and Cas had been doing this exact thing, only their positions had been switched. _Bobby_ had been up and getting out the mayo and mustard for their sandwiches and Cas had been sitting at the table—still in his old angel get-up, even, that suit and coat tattered and torn.

Jesus—it’d seriously been _ten friggin’ years_.

He immediately gave up on trying to read his book because the realization hit him kinda hard. How on earth had he been livin’ with Cas for ten years and not noticed that much time had passed? Not only that, but things were _so_ incredibly different now— ten years ago, Dean had been _hiding_ , and that’d been over a simple kiss in the middle of a field. But today Dean had been cheerful and pleasant and he and Sam had happily gone out to get lunch, and when they got back, Dean would still be full of shit and (unwittingly) broadcasting to the whole world that he’d gotten laid. Back then, Bobby had been just starting to plot all of the things he was gonna make Cas do so he could earn his keep. But now? He couldn’t hardly imagine livin’ _without_ the little bastard.

Bobby had to admit—he wouldn’t have guessed that things would’ve gone _this_ direction, but he didn’t have _too_ much to complain about. Granted, that didn’t mean he had _nothin’_ to complain about, because there were plenty of little things he could bitch about all day when it came to Numbnuts up there fussin’ with the soap dispenser he’d insisted on buying after lecturing Bobby that it was more hygienic than just leaving a bar by the sink when you wanted to wash your hands. But still—things were better than he ever would’ve imagined they would be after that night in the field.

And really—things were better with _Dean and Cas_ than Bobby ever would’ve imagined they would be.

Bobby still had no idea how they worked. Dean was a straight, overly-macho idiot who ogled anything with breasts, and Cas was a neurotic fusspot who was also an idiot and was terrified of anything with breasts—yet there they were. Bobby didn’t know about anything they’d talked about those first two nights, but it must’ve paved the way for whatever they had now. Or maybe it didn’t. Bobby still didn’t know any of the details—especially not about what had happened in the field to make them be all over each other.

“Hard to believe that was all ten years ago, you know?” Bobby said suddenly, unable to stop himself.

Cas turned around, and appeared unconcerned with the time. “I don’t see why. It hasn’t been very long—only ten years,” Cas replied, screwing the top back on his soap dispenser.

“Well, we feel time differently than you,” Bobby said. “We’ve only been around for a few decades—so ten years seems like a pretty long time to us,” and then snorted when a thought occurred to him. “In all that time, did Dean ever pull his head out enough to actually talk about things with you?” he asked.

Cas looked at him. “We spoke the night he brought me back—about the fact that we kissed and what it meant.”

“No, I meant about before. Boy was close-mouthed with us about whatever you two did to turn that field into Ground Zero—he ever have a talk with you about it?”

“Oh—no, he couldn’t talk about what happened before we came back,” Cas said placidly, pulling plates out of the cabinet. “He doesn’t remember it,” he said, coming over to set the plates down on the table.

Bobby made a rude noise. “Don’t tell me he fed _you_ that line of bull, too.”

Cas blinked at him, looking vaguely offended that Bobby would imply something so beneath Dean. “He _doesn’t_ remember, Bobby,” Cas insisted, sitting down across from him. “He can’t. To remember what…what transpired would drive him insane—if it didn’t kill him.”

Now Bobby was the one blinking at Cas.

Bobby and Sam had talked about Dean supposedly not remembering anything—and they had both assumed that it was like how he’d denied any memory of his time in Hell at first. Whatever’d happened between Cas and Dean had caused them to friggin’ _make out_ in front of God and everyone. That had to be pretty damn personal—but even if it wasn’t, Dean was so uptight about it that he wouldn’t have talked about it anyway. So they’d just left it alone and let him go on faking amnesia if it made him feel better.

Except here was Cas, tellin’ him that Dean was telling the truth the whole time.

And then it occurred to Bobby that he’d never thought to even _ask_ Cas about what had happened, only Dean. Dean denied knowledge of the event and Cas, in his first few years, would just fold up on himself at the barest mention of his Dark Times, so by the time Cas was stable and could mention the past without going into the “woe is me” routine, Bobby didn’t really think about it anymore.

“So—okay,” Bobby managed. “Dean doesn’t remember—but do _you_?”

Cas nodded solemnly. “Every detail,” he said quietly.

Bobby had enough presence of mind to notice that Cas didn’t look upset, at least, but he was totally feelin’ like a dumbass himself now—here it was, ten years later, and he’d never thought about the _other_ member of that particular showdown.

And, despite the fact that he’d stopped bein’ too curious about things a while ago, now that he realized Cas remembered—and what he’d just said about why Dean hadn’t been lying—he was _really_ curious now.

“So, why _can’t_ Dean remember, but you can?” Bobby asked slowly.

Cas picked at the napkin in front of him. “Because he was witness to my true form. You know it overwhelms humans.”

“Just a little,” Bobby said dryly.

“But it wasn’t just that. It was…what happened. What he did to…to make me let go of the souls,” Cas mumbled.

Bobby didn’t push him—he recognized that tone, and didn’t want Cas teetering on the edge of a depression, not with Sam and Dean only out to get lunch. If they came back and Cas was depressed, that’d cause problems. Bobby wasn’t gonna push for any more information if it was just gonna upset him; if Cas wanted to keep going, he would.

And he did. “Dean tried…tried talking to me, but I wouldn’t listen. So he reached out and _touched_ me,” Cas started again. “He was in his purest form—his _soul_ , untainted, whole, free of his earthly vessel…and so was I. He…reached past the image of me like this and…touched _me_. My _Grace_. Not this form— _me._ The _angel_. And when he did …” Cas trailed off, his eyes distant, unfocused.

“What?” asked Bobby, unable to help himself.

Cas shook himself. “It’s hard to explain in terms you can comprehend,” he replied, and Bobby scowled at him. It went unnoticed, of course, and Cas continued, going far away again. “It wasn’t like when I rescued his soul from Hell—then I just carried him out. This time, he reached…he reached _inside_ of me. It was like…we became one. Or became each other. I was him— _all_ of him, and he was all of me. I felt what it was like to be human— _truly_ human, to have a soul and emotions and everything it was to be _Dean_ —and Dean felt what it was like to be an angel.” Cas looked up. “It was the single most excruciating agony I’ve ever felt in my existence…and I know it was the same for him because I was him and felt his pain as well as my own,” Cas stated matter-of-factly.

Bobby didn’t have a single thing to say—this was all kind of a little…much.

Cas glanced back down at the table. “When he was brought back, I imagine Dean’s mind and body _forced_ him to forget it for his own sanity. He is human—he wasn’t meant to feel or see or _be_ me and have my mind and memories and self. But…but it lingered. It left a mark. And…” Cas looked up again. “I could still…feel _Dean_ afterward, and even though he can’t remember it, he was probably feeling it as well. The intensity stayed with me for months. Even today I sometimes… _feel_ Dean.”

Some small part of Bobby snidely pointed out that Cas wasn’t actually being a patronizing snot this time around when he’d said he needed to dumb it down for Bobby. “Okay, lemme get this straight,” Bobby finally started, closing his eyes briefly. “You and Dean…you friggin’ _soul-bonded_ that night?” he asked incredulously.

“No,” Cas replied, his brows knitting. “I don’t have a soul—”

“Okay, fine, he soul-bonded and you _Grace_ -bonded, whatever,” Bobby snapped. “The point is, is that kind of what happened?”

Cas thought on it for a moment, chewing his lip. “I…suppose. But not entirely. As I said—I can’t truly explain what happened. You…can’t understand.” He looked down at his hands. “In truth, I don’t even fully understand it either.”

Well, maybe Bobby couldn’t understand _that_ , but he did understand _one_ thing, at least. After ten years, Bobby’d finally, _finally_ had a mystery solved. Because as vague and weird as that was, Cas’s explanation did actually shed a great deal of light on just why the hell Dean had just jumped down into that crater and jammed his tongue down Cas’s throat.

_Explained, maybe_ , Bobby thought wryly. _But that sure as hell didn’t make it any less_ weird _._


	44. Anything You Can Do

_Set just after “Machine Gun”_

Sam sucked.

Never mind that he hadn’t done jack shit on this hunt—Cas has been the one to do all the research, and Dean had been the one to actually ice the ghost. Oh no—no, none of that mattered. All Janice cared about was how the Big Bad Sammy had defended her, flailing around with that stupid crowbar like he was something else while Dean and Cas did all the work. So that left Dean here, driving back to the motel _without_ Sam.

Dean scowled. Yeah. Driving back without Sam—but _with_ Cas. See, Sam was still back with Janice. Because he and Janice had been sweet on each other since the fucking _start_ , and Sam, oh, Dean had watched him—little bastard had laid it on _thick_. Oooh, Sensitive Sam, here to cater to all of your sensitive feelings, playing Mr. Sympathetic just so he could get in her pants. And after it was all over, they’d _both_ given him that look, one that clearly said he and Cas were so not invited when Janice offered coffee back at her place ( _coffee_ , indeed), and so they’d left.

Yeah. Dean had left so Sam could have sex with a hot chick. Because Dean didn’t have sex with hot chicks anymore. He had sex with a _dude_.

Somehow, having to go back to the motel _with Cas_ made it smart all the worse. He hadn’t really wanted to bring Cas along with them on the trip at all, but it had looked like a ghost hunt from the get-go, so it just…made _sense_ to bring him. Didn’t mean that Dean had to be all that comfortable with it, seeing as he and Cas had just gotten back from a hunt themselves and they’d…done all of _that_. He just…didn’t like having Sam riding shotgun while the guy that had fucking _eaten him out_ napped in the back. He shouldn’t have had to, either, dammit—a poltergeist wasn’t anything serious that they needed their Ghost-Whisperer for! They could have handled it themselves! But oh, no, Bobby had told them to take Cas out because he was having the _Sheriff_ over, and he wanted the house all to himself without risk of Cas walkin’ in on him gettin’ to third base, the old perv.

Goddammit. The entire fucking _world_ was sending Dean off so they could score with hot chicks. Bobby’d saddled him with Cas so he could get lucky with Jody, and now Sam had just sent him off so he could get lucky with Janice. But they hadn’t just sent Dean off. They’d sent Dean off with _Cas_. This was just…this was just _humiliating_ , is what it was. “Yeah, you go with the dude you screw so I can totally make it with this hot chick. You know—since you won’t be getting any.” Dean had a good mind to sock Sam in the jaw when he got back; no doubt the little snot would just be _strutting_ , rubbing it in Dean’s face, just King Shit of Turd Mountain. Why had Janice even been sweet on _him_ , anyway—Dean himself had been right there the whole time, and that should have been no contest. He was smarter, better looking, was way more charming, and better in the sack—and did way more actual _work_.

Growling a little under his breath, he pulled the car into the spot outside their room and killed the engine, tugging the keys out with a little more force than was necessary afterwards. After he got out and popped the trunk, he grudgingly grabbed Sam’s bag for him, wishing he could just leave it in there or make Cas carry it, because here he was, fucking _waiting_ on the douchetard now. Grumbling quietly, he heaved them both out and let Cas shut the trunk for him as he stomped his way to their room, letting Cas unlock the door since his hands were full—yeah, Cas had Sam’s key. Because Sam didn’t need a motel key tonight. Because he was having sex with Janice and making Dean go back to the motel with Cas.

Cas held open the door for him, and he trudged inside, tossing Sam’s bag next to his bed and shoving it under with his foot before circling around to put his own under the other bed. Cas just tucked his under Sam’s bed as well, seeing as it was closest to the door—he’d drawn the short straw this time and had had to take the couch on this job, but since Sam was off getting laid (goddammit), Cas could have the bed tonight. Well, after he got all their bags and things arranged and stowed just so, because he was an idiot, but that was his own problem—Dean wanted to just sit down and have a beer. He left Cas to his organizing and made his way to the fridge, swinging it open and snagging a longneck. He headed back to the couch, detouring to switch on the TV and hopefully be distracted by some mindless noise, and then flopped down on the far end next to the table as he twisted off the cap, listening with half an ear as Cas moved around the room.

Janice even had huge boobs. Those were Ds if he ever saw ‘em—they would have to be, because, of all the rotten luck, she was a Hooters waitress. Goddammit, Sam was gonna get to score with a fucking _Hooters_ waitress. He was gonna get to have real sex and get his hands on an awesome pair of tits—and no way those were artificial, Dean could spot a fake from a mile away—and roll around naked with a hot chick even though there was no way he was as good as Dean was with a woman. And it was all because Dean and Cas had busted their asses on the job just to pave the way so Sam could slack off and play footsie with the girl.

Sam was an asshat.

He took a swig of his beer, closing his eyes and leaning his head back and imagining all the ways that Sam could (and would) probably screw things up with Janice and get thrown out and have to come back here. Would be really great if he couldn’t get a cab—would have to walk the whole way. Heh—and they were across town, too. Wouldn’t that be great. Then he could get his ass kicked by a hobo. And when he finally got home, Dean could laugh, because _he’d_ gotten to sleep in a nice bed and—

Dean jumped when he suddenly felt hands on his knees, and snapped his head up when he realized they were being pushed apart.

He blinked. When the hell had Cas gotten there? But he was there nonetheless, on his knees, scooting between Dean’s, gazing very seriously at him, and he was—oh, hell, he was going for Dean’s _pants_ —

No, no _way_ , they couldn’t do this—for fuck’s sake, they were on a hunt with _Sam_! He was in town, he was—he could show up at any minute! They did not fucking _do this_ when other people were around, unless it was Bobby’s or something—no, this—they—

He grunted when Cas’s fingers squeezed his crotch as he unbuttoned the top of his jeans, slowly pulling the zipper down afterwards, and the whole time he just _stared_ at him…

Dean fumbled to get his beer on the table, struggling to calm down. It…okay. Okay, this—maybe they could—maybe a short one. They _were_ all the way across town, after all…even if Sam fucked things up with Janice, that was a twenty to thirty minute drive…plus, he’d have to get a taxi first…and hell, if Sam could get a whole lot of action, why couldn’t Dean get just a _little_ …

Okay. They could…do this. No problem with some quick head. Plus, he thought as Cas gently tugged his dick free of his shorts, he could…throw Cas off and fix his pants if he had to. TV was on and there were throw pillows—he had cover. They could…yeah. They could do this. Maybe a little.

Cas’s grip wasn’t tight—in fact, he was barely gripping him at all, just softly stroking him as he kept his face upturned, waiting for Dean to stiffen up under his hands. Dean sighed when Cas carefully wormed one hand into his jeans and between his thighs so he could cup his balls, and Dean was almost annoyed that Cas was so damn unhurried to get him up. Cas never started sucking until Dean was hard, but his mouth was right there, his lips parted just a little, and Dean _wanted_ to be in that.

Finally he was hard, and Cas leaned forward and Dean tensed, ready for it—

But he just slipped his tongue past his lips, lapping at the head once, his fingers curled around the base of Dean’s cock. And then he looked up at him, his eyes big and loving and—

Oh, fuck. Dean knew that look.

He exhaled shakily as Cas slowly— _agonizingly_ slowly—slid Dean’s cock into his mouth before pulling back again, equally slowly, sucking softly.

They were gonna be here a while.

* * *

The TV was still on, but the volume was low. Dean thought he could hear maybe a weather report—clear skies. Storms rolling in over the next two days. But he wasn’t paying much attention to it.

He was sprawled out on the couch, one leg hanging off and dangling on the floor. His jeans were still open and undone, pulled halfway off his hips. Cas’s weight was heavy and hot on top of him, and it was nice. Dean had one arm slung around him as Cas stroked his chest through his shirt, his head resting on Dean’s shoulder. Cas’s pants were open too, and Dean was tempted to reach down there and get his hand in them so he could grope his butt, but that would require stretching and moving too much, so he wasn’t all that interested.

Fine. So Sam got the girl this trip. So Sam was probably rolling around in that nice bed that Janice had with the fluffy pillows and the expensive sheets. So Sam was having real sex and had his hands full of awesome tits.

But if Janice had gone down on him and sucked him off, there was no _possible_ way he’d gotten a blowjob as awesome as the one Dean had just got—and there was sure as fuck no way he could ever satisfy Janice as good as Dean had just satisfied Cas—and that had been with just a _handjob_. So _there_.

Bitch.

* * *

“Well—here you are.”

Janice put the car in park and turned to look at him, her head tilted downward as she looked a little shyly up at him from under her lashes. Sam couldn’t help but grin at her; despite what stories went around about Hooters girls, Janice clearly didn’t do this kind of thing all that often, and Sam was honestly flattered that he was one of her rare exceptions.

“Thanks for breakfast,” he said. Yet another mark of someone who wasn’t usually into casual one-night stands; she’d cuddled in the morning, and then gotten up and made him pancakes, and then had been so adorably shy when she’d stuttered through a hint about maybe having a mutual shower (to which Sam had whole-heartedly agreed).

“Well, you did save my life—it’s the least I could do,” she joked, and then promptly blushed, and the only reasonable thing for Sam to do was to cup her cheek and tilt her head up for a long, slow kiss.

“You take care, now, all right?” he said when he broke away.

She nodded, her eyes bright, and murmured, “You too,” and Sam leaned in for one more kiss. Then he forced himself to let go and unbuckle, opening the door and swinging himself out to his feet on the parking lot blacktop. He shut the door with a thunk and leaned down in the open car window; Janice smiled and said, “See you around,” which they both knew she wouldn’t, but he agreed and straightened as she put her care in gear.

“Say thanks to Dean and Cas for me!” she called as she began to pull away.

“Will do,” Sam called back, and he raised one hand to return her wave as she drove towards the exit. He watched her pull out onto the main road with a sort of wistfulness, but then shook himself and turned back to the motel behind him, making his way to their door and knocking loudly. “Hey, it’s me—open up,” he called through the door.

There was silence, and then the door swung open.

Dean was standing there in the doorway, and he didn’t move. He just stood there, a very hard look on his face. “Well—look who’s back. All hail the conquering hero.”

Sam’s mouth pursed. Great. He’d known this was coming, but knowing didn’t mean that it didn’t piss him off. Every time Sam hooked up with a girl these days, Dean got so incredibly _bitchy_ about it. And it wasn’t like Sam didn’t know why; he’d been doing this ever since he’d gotten together with Cas, and the ridiculous mix of jealousy and all Dean’s usual macho bullcrap made for a very bitter cocktail.

Dean still wasn’t moving to let Sam in. “So—you have fun last night?” he asked snidely.

Sam didn’t react. “Yeah, I did, actually—she was nice girl.”

Dean gave a rude snort, and even though Sam knew it was exactly what Dean wanted, he went ahead and gave him the satisfaction of asking, “Are you gonna let me in?”

Dean stood aside with an exaggerated semi-bow into the room, which made Sam roll his eyes as he walked in. Dean slammed the door behind him and stalked over to the mini-fridge, taking care to bump into Sam on his way.

“Nice girl, huh,” Dean said as he straightened up from the fridge, beer in hand. “So, what’d you two do, then? Play Scrabble? Bake cookies? Look at pictures of her latest church picnic?”

Sam just looked at him. “Yeah, Dean, that’s exactly what we did,” he answered flatly after a moment.

Dean made another rude noise and took an abrupt drink of his beer. “Well, that’s just good for you, then, isn’t it,” he said, his chin jutting out as he stomped past Sam to continue jerkily packing his bag over on the table—and bumping his arm again as he went by.

Okay—this was getting ridiculous. Sam knew Dean got bitchy when Sam got laid, but he was just outright _belligerent_ about it this morning. What the hell, man, stomping around and running into Sam and acting like he had something to prove.

The sound of the toilet flushing reminded Sam that Cas was here too, and he looked up just in time to see him open the door—and he immediately wished he hadn’t.

Cas came floating out of the bathroom, his face serene and his eyes bright. “Good morning, Sam,” he sighed, and drifted across the room to sit on the couch, where he was best positioned to look soppily up at Dean, who—oh, _Christ_ , who actually looked like he was puffing up his chest at Sam, as if to say that he _had_ already proven something—

Sam turned away, quickly crossing the room to the fridge. He didn’t care that it was ten in the morning, he needed a beer, too. _Thanks a lot, Dean_ , he snarled to himself. _I just had a nice time with a nice girl—but now all I can think about is you and Cas screwing each other silly in here._ He twisted the cap off of his beer and paused right before he took a swig; he squinted in distaste at the rumpled sheets he saw and finished his thought.

_And probably in_ my _bed._

_Jerk._


	45. Eden

_Set after “Machine Gun”_

Bobby stepped outside for the third time and bellowed, “ _Cas!_ ” in the general direction of the woods near the edge of his property, and also for the third time got no response. Growling to himself, he slammed the door behind him and set off for the trees.

He didn’t know what the hell Cas was doin’ out there, but he wasn’t gonna sit on the back step and shout himself hoarse. What was irritatin’ was that Cas was always very good about keepin’ an ear open for when Bobby called him inside. But no, not today—so now Bobby would have haul himself all the way out there to _actively_ drag him away from his posies.

Bobby’d only seen Cas’s garden once, and that was years ago, back when it was brand new. He’d been a little weirded out when Cas had taken him out to a spot at the edge of his property, just where the trees started up at the creek bottom and very seriously asked if he could lay claim to the patch of land and start a garden. But weird or no, Bobby had no reason to say no, so had just shrugged and let him. All he did all day was clean house and research and bake and sew—would do the boy good to get outside once in a while, Bobby figured.

Cas had taken to it with a right good will. He’d started simple—just a couple of roses, a patch of black-eyed Susans, and a clump of some kind of long grass that Bobby didn’t even remember the name of. Bobby had gone with him to the store; Cas had been so enthusiastic in his quiet, serious way that Bobby had ended up making a present out of that first round of supplies. They’d bought his plants, and also some basic gardening tools and fertilizer, When they got everything home, Cas had laid claim to an old, banged-up wheelbarrow in Bobby’s garage, loaded everything in it, and trundled out to the woods. Bobby had followed him, but had only watched his progress halfway just to make sure the idjit knew what he was doing—and he did, so he left him to his own devices. Bobby hadn’t been out since, because it was a pretty long hike through all that brambly stuff out back and he just wasn’t that interested—that, and his job was dirty enough. Didn’t need to be diggin’ around in the dirt and addin’ to it. So he’d simply watched Cas drive off to town every spring and then come back with his flats of plants and bags of soil and the occasional new gardening tool, shuttling them into the trees to do whatever it was he did with them.

It didn’t take Bobby too long to hit the edge of the woods, and he immediately spotted a somewhat worn path along the edge of the trees—Cas had apparently been walkin’ here a lot. He trudged forward, carefully watching the path because the last thing he needed was to find a stray tree root with his foot and go crashin’ down like he’d been felled by Paul Bunyan, and after about fifty feet, he pushed aside a low-hanging clump of leaves and—

His jaw dropped.

For a brief and stupid second, he wondered if he’d somehow wandered into the wrong place. But no, this was definitely it. There were the black-eyed Susans—but not the tiny plot he remembered. No it was a huge, wild patch of them in all colors, growing without any kind of discernible order or pattern. And the roses—they were still there, too. Those were definitely the roses Cas had bought years ago—although it was hard to tell if they were the original five bushes, since they’d grown into a solid tangle of branches that was heavy with blooms.

But the entire place was so much _bigger_ …and _overgrown_. There were blue flowers and purple flowers and pink flowers and yellow flowers, with everything just scattered randomly around, nothing of them really separated into nice neat plots or patterns. They overlapped and grew clumped together and scattered. All kinds of bushes were everywhere, not trimmed or manicured like a hedge at all, just growing wild; Bobby spotted a cheap birdbath over in one of the smaller stands. That grass that Cas had planted had spread, spiky seed-heads poking out everywhere. Several rough stakes poked up out of the ground in random places, covered in climbing plants at various stages of growth. A massive dead tree seemed to be the center of the whole “arrangement,” but it wasn’t just some dead thing sticking out like a sore thumb—it was completely covered in a huge mass of trumpet vines, draping from all the branches down to the ground and dripping with flowers. A low drone filled the still air as bees and other bugs flew around and sampled the opening blossoms. Underneath it at the base was a large spread of lush shade grass, thick and unmowed, and there was a little wooden bench—handmade, if somewhat clumsily so—set up right next to the tree.

But Cas wasn’t sitting on the bench—he was lying on the ground, all sprawled out in the grass, his jaw slack as he slept, a book laying forgotten across his chest.

Bobby finally snapped out of it and picked his way over to Cas, taking the little path Cas had obviously carefully marked out with stones between all of his plants, and bent down to shake him awake.

“Cas—wake up,” he said.

Cas’s eyes fluttered open and he blinked, looking confused. Then he seemed to realize where he was and what was going on.

“Oh—hello, Bobby,” he managed, his voice even more gravelly than usual, the last part of his greeting getting cut off as he yawned hugely, struggling to sit up. His book tumbled down into the grass as he pushed himself upright.

“Watch out,” Bobby warned him. “Bee in your hair.”

Cas stopped scrubbing at his eyes with one fist and instead carefully reached up, slowly carding his fingers through his hair until he found the fat bumblebee on his head, and Bobby was somewhat unsurprised when it made its way onto his hand with no sign of agitation or wanting to sting the hell out of him. Bobby had seen that before. He figured it was some kind of residual angel in him, Cas’s…weird affinity for animals. He’d let anything crawl all over him, bird, beast, or bug; and more often than not, it would do just that as if Cas were nothing more than part of the scenery. So why would a bumblebee be any different? And Bobby was _really_ unsurprised when Cas didn’t shake the thing off immediately. Instead, he just did what he always did—sat and stared at it as it lumbered across his hand. But it didn’t stay for long, and when it buzzed off, Cas watched it go for a few seconds more before it disappeared into the trumpet vines, then he returned his attention to Bobby.

“I fell asleep,” he said unnecessarily.

“Yeah, I noticed,” Bobby replied. “Been callin’ you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Bobby stood back up, and then gestured around him as Cas got to his feet as well. “Damn, boy—you’ve been busy out here, haven’t you? Just kept plantin’?”

Cas glanced around. “Yes. I just planted the Jacob’s Ladder this year,” he said, gesturing to a smallish stand of purple flowers. “I was concerned, because they didn’t take their transplant well. But they recovered.”

Bobby could only snort, but didn’t bother explaining to Cas why it was funny as hell that he’d planted _Jacob’s Ladder_ in his garden because he wouldn’t get it. “Well, it all looks…good. Really good. Now I see why you hang out here so much.”

“I do like it. Did you need something?” he suddenly asked.

“Yeah—got a call from Greg Richards. He’s dealin’ with something a little wacky, so I’d like your help on it.”

“Of course,” Cas said benignly, then bent down to pick up his book and walked past him towards the house.

Bobby paused before following him, glancing one more time around the Hanging Gardens of Babylon that Cas had somehow managed to set up without his knowing about it, before shaking his head and following Cas out of the woods.


	46. Flirting with Disaster

_Set after “Bad Medicine”_

Dean swung into the car and shut the door, disgruntled. It was annoying enough when the people they interviewed honestly didn’t have any information, but when the guy had seen something but was too much of an idiot to recall what had happened, it really pissed him off. Was it too hard to remember what happened when you saw someone getting _strangled to death by a necklace_? Grumbling to himself about pot-smoking douchebags, he pulled out his phone and called Cas.

It only rang twice before he picked up. “Yes, Dean?” he said, his usual growled monotone sounding tinny and mechanical over the speaker.

“Nothing from Horowitz,” he grunted without preamble. “What about you?”

“The antique store owner knew nothing,” he responded. “He didn’t know the victim, and he only had the necklace for two days before it was sold. He didn’t see any signs of ghost activity, and before he sold it he only used gloves to handle it, so if was cursed, he would not have contracted it.”

“Well, I guess that leaves the former owner—what was her name?” Dean asked as he cranked the engine.

“Susan Dubois. I am in a taxi headed to her house now.”

“All right—I’ll meet you there,” Dean answered, and then hung up.

It was just a quick drive across town, and then Dean was knocking on the freshly painted red door of number 752 Poplar Street. The woman who opened the door was a few years younger than Dean, maybe, but she wore it very well, with a fine rack and some of the most fantastic legs Dean had ever seen. Her face was unlined, and her dark eyes were direct and confident. “May I help you?” she asked.

Dean put on his best professional smile and flashed his badge. “Ms. Dubois? I’m Agent Paulson.”

He didn’t manage to get anything else out, because she immediately asked, “Ah—Agent Roberts’s partner?”

“Exactly,” he said. “He’s here already, then?”

“Yes—do come in,” she said, smiling rather neutrally and gesturing him in.

He walked into the fairly lush interior of the house—wood floors, furniture that looked antique, that sort of thing. Cas was sitting on the couch with his little pad of paper on his knee and his cell phone beside him; his memory was a hundred times better than Dean’s, Sam’s, or Bobby’s, but because it wasn’t _quite_ as good as it used to be when he was one-hundred-percent angel, he was constantly fretting that he was going to forget some critical detail, so now on any hunt he obsessively wrote everything down.

Dork.

Cas nodded to Dean as he entered. “Help yourself to coffee,” Ms. Dubois said off-handedly, waving a hand in the direction of the hoity-toity coffee tray that was sitting on the table. She herself sat down and poured a cup. “Cream and sugar, you said?” she asked, smiling at Cas.

“Please,” he replied, and she poured a second cup, added sugar to one and cream to both, and handed Cas the first and took the other for herself.

“So—where were we?” she asked, crossing her legs and smiling coolly in Cas’s direction.

“Well, I’m sure you know the details of the murder,” Dean started, “so we were wondering when you acquired the necklace—”

“Agent Roberts and I already covered that,” Ms. Dubois said dismissively, still looking at Cas. “I sold most of my grandmother’s estate and only kept a few pieces—she and I weren’t very much alike in our tastes,” she said to Cas with a light laugh.

Cas was looking down at his pad, so after fumbling a bit with the heavy coffee pot and the dainty little cup, Dean asked, “So, how did the pawnshop wind up with it?”

Ms. Dubois looked at him with a rather displeased expression, one eyebrow raised, before saying curtly, “There was an estate sale.” She turned back to Cas, her expression smoothing out and her voice getting warmer. “It was all arranged by a brokerage house in town—all the appraisals and the auction following. I really had very little to do with it—I was just as shocked and distressed by the murder as anyone,” she added, shifting a little in her seat, uncrossing and re-crossing her legs, angling towards Cas as she wet her lips and smiled.

_…Oh, for fuck’s sake._ This—she—she was _hitting_ on him! On Cas! Oh, this was just friggin’ great. Dean had a good mind to be pissed off—why the hell would any woman want to hit on that scrawny little dork in the first place, much less when Dean Winchester, Gift to All Women, sat not three feet away?

But no, how could he be pissed when all he really felt like doing was laughing? Because there was Cas, very seriously listening to every word she said, but utterly clueless about every obvious signal she was sending.

He rubbed a hand across his face, trying to figure out the best way to handle this—Cas had apparently fallen back on his usual role of letting Dean take the lead in an investigation. How was Dean supposed to tell him to take over?

Dean was saved the trouble of having to try to kick him under the table when Ms. Dubois’s phone went off. She looked at the screen and said, “Oh, I’m sorry—I need to take this. I’ll be right back,” she said to Cas with a smile, and stood and went to take the call in the kitchen.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Dean leaned over to Cas. “Hey—you ask the questions this time,” he muttered

Cas looked at him with furrowed brows. “Why?” he asked.

_Seriously? Yeah, seriously._ “Dude—she’s into you. She wants to talk to you, not me.”

And—nothing. “…Into me?” Cas asked, bewildered.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Cas—she’s coming on to you.” At his blank look, Dean clarified, “ _Flirting_ with you, you dumbass. She _likes_ you.”

Cas blinked, and then his eyes went wide with alarm. “What? Dean, I don’t—”

“Relax!” Dean hissed. “Just you ask the questions, and, you know, try to be smooth about it.” God—telling Cas to be smooth was like telling Sam _not_ to be a patronizing little shit. “If she likes you and you look like you’re going with it, she’ll be more likely to tell you stuff,” he explained, trying to be patient. “Just—just play along.”

Ms. Dubois had just hung up and was walking back in, her heels clacking on the floor. Dean put on his best charming smile; it went utterly unnoticed. No, she was just looked at Cas—who was sitting ramrod straight in his seat, his hands tightly clasped in his lap, his eyes big and anxious.

She sat down, and her smile was positively catlike. “Now, Agent Roberts—where were we?” she purred.

Cas licked his lips and he cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Ms. Dubois,” he started.

“Please—call me Susan.”

Cas gave Dean one tiny, nervous glance, his cheeks darkening, before he haltingly tried again, “Uh…Susan…do you know where your grandmother acquired the necklace?”

“Oh, I think it was a gift from an ex-lover, something along those lines,” she said. “Not quite conventional for the times, I know, but my grandmother was always something of a free spirit.” Her smile widened just a fraction, and she blinked slowly as she leaned forward to give a flash of frankly impressive cleavage. “Now that was one way that my grandmother and I were alike,” she said, her voice husky.

Dean barely kept from snickering at Cas’s look of panicked desperation and instead hid inside his fruity little coffee cup. Christ, what a fucking idiot. Cas had better be glad that Dean put up with him—otherwise he’d never get laid ever. He settled back in his chair to watch the show; this was shaping up to be hilarious, and anyway, he was in no hurry. They’d wrap the case up as usual, and then, because Dean was generous and did in fact put up with Cas, he’d make sure that he made it up to him for having to—horror-of-horrors—talk to a woman who was into him.

That, and Dean would get laid, too.


	47. Side Effects May Include

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set during Cas's recovery in "[Hurt and Helpless](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1041215/chapters/2089445)".

_Set during “Coming Back to Life”_

Bobby had barely gotten to page three of _Watership Down_ when he heard the thud.

With Sam and Dean out of the house for the first time since Cas had gotten home after his accident, Bobby had been planning on having a nice, quiet night of reading and sipping whiskey all to himself. No dealing with Dean and Sam sniping at each other, no dealing with Dean pacing around the house pretending he didn’t want to go up there and sit with Cas—and no dealing with Cas bugging him for things, because he was nice and passed out on his pain meds. That’s what the once-a-night meds were for—stronger than what he usually took during the day so he could sleep peacefully and pain-free. Cas was officially done with his heavy-duties and had downgraded to the two new pain meds, but the ones for nighttime were still supposed to put him out like a light.

But that thump upstairs…

Didn’t _sound_ like a body falling out of bed…but if there was a chance it might be…

Bobby sighed, not bothering to mark his place in the book (he already knew it backwards and forwards anyway), and heaved himself up from his desk. Time to go see what was going on up there. If Cas had somehow managed to throw himself on the floor and hurt himself because he was trying to do something on his own without asking for help, Bobby honestly wouldn’t be surprised. He was stupid like that. Bobby just wished the drugs would’ve kicked in sooner and made him go to sleep.

Bobby trudged up the creaking staircase, listening carefully for any sounds of distress, but so far, hadn’t heard anything. There was no light coming out from Cas’s room, either—Bobby was likin’ this less and less. Cas’s door was only open halfway, so when he finally reached it, he pushed completely open and stepped inside.

Even in the dark, Bobby could see that Cas was moving, sitting up against his pillows and leaning to one side, his good hand on his nightstand, patting limply on the spot where his stack of books and his alarm clock used to sit. Bobby quickly turned on the light, and the sudden brightness made Cas squint. But it didn’t last long, and he swung his head up, looking blearily around and taking much longer than it should’ve to finally spot Bobby standing in the doorway.

“What the hell, Cas?” Bobby grunted, walking into the room and over to the scattered books on the floor. “Were you tryin’ to turn on the light or something?”

Bobby had bent down and returned the alarm clock to the table and was halfway through stacking the books before Cas finally answered, his voice thick and slurred. “I…I hafta go downstairs…to see Dean b’fore he leaves.”

Bobby paused. He looked back up at Cas, only this time, he _really_ looked at him. And saw his slack jaw, his unfocused, near-crossed eyes, his dilated pupils, and the completely blank expression on his face.

Oh, _Christ_. He was completely stoned out of his mind.

Bobby growled to himself, roughly finishing picking the books up and shoving them on the nightstand. “Dean’s already gone. He said goodbye to you before he left—did it after dinner, remember?” he told him, trying to be patient. He’d have to call the doctor tomorrow—clearly this prescription wasn’t going to work out.

Cas blinked slowly up at him. “Where…where’d he go?” he asked, dazed.

“On a hunt,” Bobby replied. “Which he told you.”

“Oh.” He stared at blankets still half-on him as if confused by them, and then started flailing around again. “I have to get up,” he suddenly declared, his speech starting to clear but still mostly just sounding like he did when he was drunk.

Bobby quickly sat down on the bed next to him, a firm hand on his good shoulder. “No, you don’t, not unless it’s because you gotta piss or something,” Bobby said forcefully. Dammit, he was gonna have to sit here until Cas passed out again, else he’d just hurt himself.

“But _Dean_ —he needs me to do his laundry,” Cas insisted.

“The laundry’s done. Sit _still_ ,” Bobby ordered, hoping he wasn’t so stoned he no longer wanted to obey him.

Fortunately, that did not seem to be the case, because he settled down. Didn’t stop talking, though. And that was _definitely_ very, very _un_ fortunate, because without any laundry to focus on, he just latched onto his favorite subject instead. “I love Dean, Bobby,” he babbled.

Bobby’s mouth twisted a little. “Yeah. I know. Everybody knows,” he grunted in reply.

“I wish he hadn’t gone away.”

“He’ll be back.”

“I want him _here_. With me.”

“You always want that.”

“Dean is wonderful.”

“So you say.”

“And he loves me.”

“Yeah, we know that too, Cas.”

“ _I_ know he does—because he _touches_ me.”

“Oh, _dammit_.”

Cas did not hear that. Instead, he just kept right on talking. “He touches me _everywhere_. And it’s so amazing, Bobby. Because _Dean_ is amazing.”

“Yeah, you told me all about it years ago,” Bobby ground out. What the hell was in those pills to turn him into a damn talk-box?

“ _No._ You don’t understand. You _can’t_.” Cas teetered dangerously as he swung up to stare wide-eyed at Bobby. “Because you weren’t _there_. And you don’t _feel it_.”

“And thank all the powers that be for that,” Bobby replied flatly.

“I’d always—I’d always _wanted_ to fellate him,” Cas blurted out. “To please him like that. But I _never imagined_ how—how _I_ would feel. I knew it would please _him_ if I did it, but they never said anything about how amazing it would be for _me_ to do that for him.”

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph—this was a million times worse than the last time this had happened. In fact, Bobby was _wishing_ he was back to that first time. Was he _seriously_ being told all about how much Cas loved to _go down_ on _Dean_?

Yes. Yes he was. And it promptly got worse.

“To bring him to orgasm with my mouth—Bobby, knowing that I _do that_ for him—to _taste_ him, to take _him_ , _his semen_ , into my body—”

“Oh, sweet _Christ_!”

“—I never imagined…but Dean, Bobby! _Dean_ does it for _me_ , too. And the _feeling_ —”

“Cas, I really, _really_ don’t need to hear about that feeling—”

“He performs _oral sex_ on me, and—and _so much more_.” Cas swayed drunkenly, clinging to Bobby’s shirt and leaning heavily against him. “Bobby, I sometimes think I can’t give enough for all he does for _me_ …”

Grimacing, Bobby stayed where he was, keeping the brain-damaged idiot from falling off the bed and still fruitlessly trying to shut him up. “Yeah, I’m sure he does all kinds of things for you—”

Cas wasn’t shutting up. “He does. And he—he makes such _sacrifices_ for me. He doesn’t—he’s heterosexual, but my vessel is male, but even then he—he gave up _everything_ else just to be with _me_ —he gave up _sex_ , Bobby.” His eyes were huge. “ _Real_ sex—intercourse, like with women—because I couldn’t do that. But I just…I didn’t want him to give up _anything_ , because he _shouldn’t have to_. Dean should have…have _everything_ he wants, even if I couldn’t give it to him. But I _can_!” Cas’s fingers scrabbled pointlessly on the front of Bobby’s shirt, his face exultant. “Bobby, I _can_ have intercourse with Dean! And I never—I never imagined it would feel…like this.”

 _Oh, dear God no._ “Cas,” Bobby growled, “You really need—”

“I didn’t _understand_ anal sex, because it seemed _pointless_ —there’s no way to reproduce, and it’s counter to the design of the human body—but Bobby, the way it _feels_ when he’s inside me—”

“Oh, for crying out _loud_ , Cas, why are you—”

“Yes, _yes_ , he makes me cry out when he does it!” Cas slurred in rapture. “It’s so _good_ —and so _beautiful_!”

Bobby squeezed his eyes shut and dragged a hand across his face. There had to be some way to shut him up. _Some way._ Because he could _not_ take any more of this.

“And it’s not just the actual sex, Bobby, it’s _everything_ —when he uses his _fingers_ —”

“Cas, I _don’t_ need to know this, this is—can you just—”

“ _Bobby_ ,” he said, suddenly still and intense. “Do you know what he _says_? While he is having _anal sex_ with me? _Real_ sex?”

Bobby sighed hugely and wished for death. “ _No._ And I—”

“He says _I’m his bitch_ ,” he whispered, sounding dazed and tender.

Bobby just stared, appalled.

 _Dean, you sorry_ bastard _._

“Do…do you know what that _means_?” Cas continued, now sounding damn near tears of joy at the thought.

“Better than you do,” Bobby said delicately.

As usual, Cas paid zero attention to him. “It means I’m his—that I _belong_ to him. He’s saying I’m _his_ , Bobby, and no one else’s—Bobby,” he gasped, “ _I’m Dean’s bitch._ ”

“Yeah. Yeah, you are,” Bobby grunted. “And that is—”

“That is _wonderful_.” Cas’s head was lolling from side to side as if the bones in his neck were refusing to work properly as he gazed blearily at the bed. He seemed puzzled by the movement of his feet under the blankets for a moment, but then just let go of Bobby’s shirt and started limply patting at the bedspread, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles. The seconds ticked by, and for a desperate moment, Bobby wondered if maybe, just _maybe_ he was done for the night, but the second he thought it, Cas looked right back up at him again, his eyes big and glassy, and he was already opening his mouth to start _talking_ again.

_Balls. I really gotta stop thinking shit like that._

“I didn’t understand so many things, Bobby. More than just anal sex. I—those _videos_ —I watched, but so much I didn’t _understand_ …but I do now! I do…” His head flopped backwards as he stared at the ceiling his mouth open. “It’s all so _beautiful_. And amazing. Like when Dean slaps my rear during intercourse—”

“Oh, for— _why_ are you—”

“—it doesn’t hurt, it feels _good_ , and then—it’s so wonderful to perform analingus on him, too—”

Bobby choked. “ _What_ —Cas, you—” he spluttered.

But Cas just kept going. “Dean loves it so much when he lets me do that, and _I_ love it too, because I am _pleasuring_ him—so much. And—” Bobby was still gawping, but when Cas swung around to stare at him, he just didn’t notice. “—and he marks me as _his_. I _understand_ that now, when he ejaculates into my mouth so he can see his semen—”

“ _Stop!_ ” Bobby yelled, shooting up off the bed and slapping his forehead with both hands, grinding the heels of his palms into his eyes and trying _not_ to let _that_ image solidify in his brain because if it did it would never leave. “Just—just _stop_! Stop. _Talking!_ ”

He risked a glance at Cas; he was wide-eyed and confused, and obviously had no clue why Bobby just shouted at him. In fact, Bobby doubted he had a clue what he just said. Grinding his teeth, he counted to five. “Just—would you just _go to sleep_? Go to sleep, dammit!”

Cas blinked slowly at him, his mouth still unhinged, and then he just nodded slowly and dazedly. “All right,” he mumbled, and then, after a little struggling, managed to get himself mostly situated on his pillows and immediately shut his eyes.

Bobby stared. No…he wasn’t…

Yep. He was. He was going to sleep, just like that.

All this time, he could’ve just told him to do that, but no, he’d let the son of a bitch ramble…

_Balls!_

* * *

Sam grimaced when Dean swept out of the car and into Bobby’s without grabbing the waxed paper bag of cinnamon crisps—the bag he’d insisted on buying, no less. He’d said he wanted two bags for dessert after they’d hit that taco joint, but Sam wasn’t stupid—Dean was buying them for Cas and Sam knew it. Looks like his hopes that maybe Dean would stop being an idiot about Cas were in vain. Sam didn’t need him to be all in his face about it or anything, but pretending that he wanted the crisps and then not eating them and working it so that Sam would have to bring them in—and probably take them upstairs to deliver them to Cas, too, so Dean wouldn’t be seen doing it—was ridiculous.

But bring them in he did, along with his usual silent resignation, collecting his own bags on the way. He closed Bobby’s door behind him and set his stuff on the kitchen table while Dean ratted around in the fridge. “Hey, Bobby,” Sam called.

Bobby, who was sitting in the living room, grunted. “Dud?”

“Yeah—nothing that we could find, so we’re back,” Sam replied.

Another grunt.

“Least it wasn’t too far away—didn’t have to waste a bunch of time driving across the country on this wild goose chase,” Dean threw in, taking a long drink from his beer before he set it down on the counter and crossed into the library. “I’m taking my stuff up to my room,” he said unnecessarily, and then grabbed his bags and made his way to the stairs.

Bobby didn’t reply to that one, grunt or otherwise, and when Sam glanced up, he noticed that Bobby was… _glaring_ at Dean. Sam furrowed his brow—there hadn’t been any of Dean’s usual smart-assery, no wisecracks about Bobby’s case-seeking talents or anything—certainly nothing that Sam could think was worthy of such a sour look.

If Dean noticed, he didn’t say anything—he simply trumped up the stairs to go put his stuff away. Since he was such a neat freak and always in such a hurry to pick up after himself. Sam barely kept from rolling his eyes at Dean’s back; everyone knew he was going upstairs to see Cas, just like he did after every hunt these days. Once he was gone, Sam went into the living room next to Bobby.

“Problem?” he finally asked when Bobby’s black look didn’t clear.

He glanced up at Sam, his glare becoming even more pronounced. “Your brother’s a damn pervert,” he announced flatly.

Sam blinked. “Uh…yeah?” he said uncertainly. “I know he is, but what prompted that?”

Bobby snorted. “Well, I just wanted to make sure you and I were on the same page—‘cause Cas sure doesn’t know it. See, he thinks Dean is friggin’ _wonderful_.”

Sam regarded him warily. “Okay—and what prompted _that_?”

“Cas had a bad reaction to his meds last night—and he got _talky_ ,” Bobby growled, his voice dark. “And he told me _all about it_. Yeah, he thinks everything they do is just _amazing_. Damn near religious experience every time.” His mouth twisted. “Up to and including the goddamn porno-style popshot.”

“ _Jesus Christ, Bobby!_ ” Sam yelled, flapping his arms as he stumbled backwards in horror. “What—what the _fuck_ made you think I wanted to know that?!” He squeezed his eyes shut, struggling to think of something, _anything_ other than the image of Dean—doing _that_ —

“Well, my day was already well ruined by last night’s little infodump,” Bobby told him. “Just thought I might as well ruin yours, too.”

Sam opened his eyes again and fumed at him; it had no effect whatsoever. “You are a miserable old bastard,” he said bluntly.

Bobby snorted again. “Well, yeah—so may as well act like it.”


	48. Addiction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set the night after "[Side Effect May Include](http://archiveofourown.org/works/956334/chapters/2092341)," during Cas's recovery in "[Hurt and Helpless](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1041215/chapters/2089445)."

_Set during “Coming Back to Life”_

Dean marched upstairs. It was only nine, but he didn’t care—anything to get away from Bobby and Sam. They were being total bitches tonight, Bobby giving him dirty looks all the friggin’ time and Sam doing nothing but make that pissy, pinched little face of his—and all for no reason, too.

Well, Dean had always heard when ladies got together, they all got on the rag at the same time.

He made his way down the hallway to the bathroom, swinging inside for a good long piss—living on the road his whole life, he’d never developed the hang-up about going in public, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a little extra satisfaction about going somewhere that was familiar. He shook off and rinsed his hands, and then flicked off the light and went back out into the hall, making to swing to the right and into the back bedroom to put on some music and fall asleep early, when he paused.

There was a stripe of light coming from under the door to Cas’s room. Bobby came up here to give Cas his nightly dose of painkillers nearly an hour ago, and those things always put him out like a light—looked like he forgot to turn off the real one before he crashed.

Dean moved down the hallway and pushed open the door, reaching for the light—

And froze when he saw Cas sitting up in bed, still awake, white and shaking.

“ _Cas!_ ” He was across the floor in two steps, crouched down by the bed, barely stopping himself from grabbing him because he _couldn’t_ , but Jesus fucking Christ, he was white to the lips, his forehead covered in sweat, and he was shivering like a leaf. “Cas, what is it?” he demanded, fighting panic—those were signs of him being in serious pain and he knew it. “What’s wrong? What—”

“No—nothing’s wrong, Dean,” Cas managed to wheeze, his eyes glassy. “I—I’m all right.”

“The _hell_ you are!” Dean hissed, barely remembering to keep his voice down what with the door open. “You’re in fucking _pain_ , is what you are—didn’t Bobby give you your pills? Son of a bitch, if he forgot—are they not working or—”

“I didn’t take them.”

Dean stared. “ _What?!_ ” he snarled, and then he spotted it, the untouched glass of water on the table and sitting next to it the two big white pills that he’d watched Bobby shake out of their bottle and take upstairs earlier tonight.

Dean’s head snapped up at the sudden sound of Cas’s rasping voice. “You—you were right, Dean,” he panted. “The medication isn’t good for me—you were right—I don’t need it—”

_Son of a_ bitch _!_ “The _fuck_ you don’t!” Dean growled, his throat tight, and he scrambled for the pills, scooping them up and picking up the glass of water and bringing it up next to Cas’s trembling lips. “Now you fucking take this shit right fucking now, goddammit!”

Cas blinked, managing to look a little confused and upset despite clearly being in agony— _goddammit!_ —but then started wiggling his good arm out from underneath him, every movement obviously a struggle and just making everything worse. Dean let out a wordless snarl and brought the pills up to push them between Cas’s bloodless lips, and then helped him get a drink to swallow them down.

He slammed the glass back down on the table and hove himself to his feet, storming over to fling the door shut, staring at the pockmarked old wood and taking deep breaths before turning around again. Cas was still propped up on his side, breathing heavily, but his bloodshot eyes were turning pitiful now. Only he would manage to work in a fret through mind-numbing pain.

Dean stalked over to the edge of the bed. “Cas, when Bobby gives you your pills, _you take your fucking pills_ —what the _hell_ , Cas?” he finally managed to grind out.

Cas’s breathing was still ragged, and so made talking a bit of a struggle. “Last night, I—I had a bad reaction to my medication,” he whispered slowly. “I don’t really—” He shifted painfully, and Dean’s jaw clenched. “I don’t really remember it, but Bobby said I did. You were right.” He looked up at him, all pale and pathetic. “You said I didn’t need that, that it wasn’t good for me to have it, and you were right—I can manage—”

Dean’s throat had closed up; he finally managed to get it unstuck to cut him off. “Cas—shut up.” Cas stopped and just blinked mournfully up at him.

Shit—of all the fucking _stupid_ —

Dean took a deep breath. “Cas, that—I wasn’t—that was bullshit, okay? I—I was _wrong_. You do need your meds, all right? You can’t just fucking _manage_ ,” he forced out.

Cas was just blinking slowly up at him, and Dean blew out a huge breath before very carefully lowering himself down to perch on the edge of Cas’s bed, taking great pains not to jostle him. “I was— _overreacting_ , okay?” he said, looking at the sheets. “You just—you need your meds. They help you heal—you can’t heal up if you’re just hurtin’ all the time. Just take what Bobby gives you, and when he says you’re done, _that’s_ when you don’t need them anymore.” He looked up; Cas was looking steadily back. “I don’t want you getting hung up on them—but I don’t want you to—to sit up here and _suffer_ either, you dumb shit.”

Cas licked slowly at his cracked lips. “I’m sorry, Dean,” he said quietly.

Dean rubbed a hand across his face, sighing. “Don’t be sorry, just—just take your damn pills.”

“I will.”

Blood was finally starting to come back into Cas’s face, even if his lips were dry and his hair still damp with sweat. Dean picked up the glass and lifted it up again to help Cas drink the rest of his water, and then put it back down on the night table.

He didn’t leave, not yet. He just sat there on the edge of the bed, watching Cas like a hawk. It seemed to take forever for the pills to kick in, but eventually the tight lines of his face smoothed out, his breathing beginning to ease, and only then did Dean’s own clenched gut loosen.

_What a fucking idiot._

Cas’s eyes were still open, but he was blinking slowly now; Dean knew his night meds had a bit more of a punch than the daytime stuff, so they’d probably knock him out pretty soon. Dean bit his lip, and then ever-so-slowly scooted a little closer.

Goddammit, Cas was practically mummified in all those bandages and that stupid sling on his arm. Lying like he was on his good side, Dean couldn’t lay a finger on him without touching something that fucking ghost bitch had torn up. Gingerly, he turned to the side a little so he could lean against the headboard too, facing Cas. Casting his eyes around for someplace safe, he couldn’t help but think of Indiana Jones (and he so wanted to whack Cas upside the head with a mirror for being such a goddamn idiot and trying not to take his meds), and finally settled on gently cupping his cheek. It was all stubbly, patchier than usual because Cas was in no condition to do any kind of regular shaving, and there were still a few healing scabs (being all bandaged up did have the advantage of keeping Cas from picking at them, he guessed) but it was warm, and his eyes weren’t all full of pain anymore. Dean hesitated for just a minute—some part of him thought that it really wasn’t a good idea with the way he was still laid up—before he leaned down to very lightly press his lips against Cas’s.

They were warm and soft and a little chapped—because they were _Cas’s_ , one of the only things about him right now that was straight-up Cas, unchanged and normal. Cas was still at first, but then when Dean leaned forward again for another kiss, his mouth moved a little beneath Dean’s, and even though he didn’t mean to, Dean licked a little at his dry lower lip.

He didn’t do any more than that, though, and when he felt the tip of Cas’s tongue on his own lip, he pulled away—no way, none of that. “You promise you’ll keep taking your meds?” he said roughly.

Cas nodded, his bristly stubble rasping over Dean’s palm where he was still cradling his cheek. Dean just grunted in acknowledgement, and then guided him to lie down, leaning on his pillows with his cheek against Dean’s shoulder. Dean moved to run his hand through his hair once before dropping his hand, finding Cas’s good hand on the mattress and getting a grip on his warm fingers; Cas squeezed back.

Dean stayed there for a little while longer, just staying quiet and listening to Cas breathe, Cas’s hand loose in his own grip, until Cas’s fingers went limp and his slow, even breathing had started to buzz a little. Only then did Dean very slowly ease himself away, moving carefully so Cas’s head didn’t flop down, and then he stood.

Dean wanted to still be pissed, but how could he be, what with Cas lying there all still all bandaged and shit. He just pursed his mouth, blowing out a breath through his nose, before turning around and slipping out the door, turning off the light as he went.

Okay, so he wasn’t mad. But Cas was still a dumb shit. And if he pulled a stunt like that again, as soon as he was back on his feet, Dean was gonna kill him.


	49. Failed Flirtation

_Set six months after “Carry On My Wayward Son”_

Dean threw the room key on the table by the door with a clatter; Cas would close things up and lock the door behind them. He sighed as he swung his jacket on the back of the chair in the room before hitting the mini-fridge for a cold one.

Just as he’d thought, Cas had cinched up the room, putting up the Do Not Disturb sign and closing all the curtains and everything; Dean would get him trained up yet. They were just in their usual dive off the highway, nothing fancy—in no small part because right there on the canyon there were no real dives, just big fancy tourist-type places. He’d learned to avoid them, because in those kinds of places their fake credit cards were more likely to get caught. As such, they’d had to drive thirty miles away to find a suitable place to crash on this trip. But hey, no grime on the walls this time.

Dean tipped back a swig of his beer and looked over by the sink. Since they’d had lunch up at the park, Cas hadn’t been able to indulge his tooth-cleaning obsession right after lunch. Now he was up there merrily brushing away.

Dean snorted. Idiot.

He glanced at the clock. It was January and it got dark quick, even this far south, so their day at the canyon had been necessarily cut short. Not that Dean cared—he’d seen it before. Technically, so had Cas (then again, he’d seen it when there was no Grand Canyon), but this was his first time as a Real Boy to see it, and Dean felt bad that it was such a short stay. Oh, well—maybe if he was feeling generous he’d take him back tomorrow.

Either way, though, that meant they were sitting here at their motel at 6:30, and since they’d had a late lunch, it was way too early for dinner. Dean idly licked at a drop of beer on his lip, watching Cas as he leaned over the sink to inspect his teeth, before decisively setting his beer down on the table and reaching down to pull off his boots.

Just ordering a pizza in an hour or so would do for dinner—so that meant there was time to kill.

Dean kicked his shoes to the side and peeled off his socks before falling back on the middle of his bed, one arm flung up over his head, and he stared at the watermarked ceiling for a minute or two before just closing his eyes to wait.

It didn’t take him long to get impatient and crack open one lid to see what Cas was doing up there. Oh, great, now he’d moved on to flossing. What next—massaging his gums? Annoyed, Dean closed his eyes again.

He couldn’t identify all the rustling noises up there, but the soft thumps on the floor he knew was Cas taking off his own shoes, and he felt the corner of his mouth turn up even as his stomach heated a little in anticipation. And it just got hotter when he heard Cas come up close, and then the mattress sank as he put his weight on it, all right—

And then there was Cas, crawling right on top of him and settling in, laying down with his head on Dean’s chest and closing his eyes.

Oh, for—what the hell was this, man? They have an hour of free time and Cas wanted to fucking _cuddle_?

Dean fumed impotently at the ceiling. Goddammit, Dean had dragged Cas’s skinny ass all the way to Arizona on a fucking curse-case that Dean could have wrapped up on his own just so Cas could get some heat in the middle of the winter, had had to deal with Bobby’s knowing looks when he’d said he’d take him, then sat through Cas dragging him all through the Grand Canyon when Dean had seen it twice already, _and_ put up with Cas giving him those gooey looks of his in public over lunch right in front of everybody, and now he was just going to sleep on him. If Dean was going to suffer through all of that, then Cas had—he had just better fucking _put out_ , goddammit!

Cas moved then, turning his head so he could rub his face against Dean’s breastbone, one hand creeping up to curl around the back of Dean’s neck, and then he laid back down against his heartbeat with a tiny, happy sigh.

Dean blew out a resigned breath and slid one hand up under Cas’s shirt, hooking a finger or two under the waistband of his jeans, the other coming up to comb through his windswept hair. What a dumbass, seriously. He absently dropped a kiss on the top of Cas’s head, and Cas let out another contented sigh, one that Dean couldn’t help but echo. Even if Cas was a dumbass.

* * *

When Dean woke up it was just a little past eight and he was hungry. Cas was still firmly latched onto him and still asleep, but he’d kick him off as soon as he felt like getting up. It was just right for a pizza delivery, and maybe there would be some good dessert they could pick up.

And really, Dean reflected as he stroked the skin at the small of Cas’s back, it was okay that they’d just had a nap before dinner instead of anything else. Because now they had all night.


	50. Observation Deck

_Set the afternoon just before “Failed Flirtation”_

Pictures would never truly be able to do justice to views like this, Sandy Kenworth decided. That included all the ones that she was snapping with her phone—they would pale in comparison to what she was seeing now. The only way to truly appreciate the wonder of the Grand Canyon was to see it for yourself.

Not that it would stop her from taking pictures. Her mom wanted to see as many as she could get, and of course she was the unofficial record keeper for the trip for her grandparents’ sake, too.

They had just celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary, and in commemoration of the event, they had decided that they wanted to take a trip out to the same place where they’d had their honeymoon fifty years ago. However, the drive from Portland to the canyon was a bit much for her grandparents to do on their own these days, what with Pops’s bad knees, Gran never driving any farther than the suburb where they lived, and both of them avoiding air travel like the plague. So, since Sandy had had some vacation she wanted to use and since the trip was one that she’d always wanted to take, she’d offered to be their driver for the duration.

She hadn’t expected them to accept on the condition that they pay all of her expenses on the way, though. She’d protested, but it hadn’t done a lick of good, and in the end she’d agreed, so here she was, standing on the observation deck of the Grand Canyon with her grandparents.

She was having a blast, she really was, but while she didn’t feel like she was intruding or anything, she couldn’t help but feel a bit wistful as she watched them, so happy together, and there was she and her single self just along as chauffeur.

Maybe that’s why her heart gave such a flutter when she looked down the deck and saw Dean.

She’d been eating lunch with her grandparents in the dining room of the canyon lodge when she’d first seen him. Gran and Pops were on the side of the table with the view and were having one of their moments where they were reminiscing and Sandy didn’t feel that they needed any input, so she was just concentrating on eating her lunch and occasionally casting her eyes around the room.

Turns out Dean had been doing the same thing. The guy he was having lunch with was facing the canyon, methodically working his way through his lunch and staring out the window, so Dean, who was already finished, was left to slump in his chair and boredly look around the room. Sandy had caught his eye quite by accident, but after one look at that face and she hadn’t been the least bit sorry. And she’d been even less sorry when his pouting mouth spread into a sly smirk in her direction. “I think you’re losing your audience to the ditch,” he joked, jerking his thumb towards the window.

She’d laughed, perhaps a bit louder than his remark warranted, and then said, “Not just any ditch, though—it is the world’s largest. That should count for something, right?”

It really wasn’t fair that one man could have eyes like that on top of the absolutely devastating smile that he unleashed on her then as he said, his voice lower, “Well, in my opinion, they’re missing out on the much better view,” and then he winked.

She’d blushed in surprise, but had managed to keep from stammering her name when he introduced himself. And while they waited for their respective lunch partners to finish, he’d chatted with her about this and that, their jobs and their trips and whatnot, and somehow managed to keep the conversation going even while he flirted outrageously with her through the whole thing.

Things had been abruptly cut short with the other guy at his table, who hadn’t said a word up to that point, suddenly spoke. “Dean,” he said, his voice gravelly, “I’m finished.”

Dean had jumped, almost as if he’d forgotten that the other guy was there, and he looked over to find the other man giving him a somewhat intense look from across the table. His face had turned a dark red, and he made a growling noise in his throat before abruptly standing, shoving his chair back with a loud scrape as he threw some money down on the table. His rumpled companion stood too, and Dean looked over at Sandy with a slightly apologetic (and, she couldn’t help but fancy, regretful) expression. “Well, I gotta go—you enjoy your trip,” he said. “And congratulations, you guys—the only person who’s stuck with me for anything close to fifty years is my kid brother,” he said to her grandparents.

They’d said thank you, and Gran had called him a nice young man (to his face, anyway—she’d whispered that he was a _delicious_ young man once his back was turned), and when they got up a few minutes later to pay, they’d found that Dean had already paid their bill on his way out.

A delicious young man, indeed.

But the park was big, and there were tourists galore even in the winter, so it wasn’t like Sandy expected anything beyond their chat at lunch. But it had been a while since she’d been so delightfully flirted with, so when she had the very good luck to spot Dean and his taciturn companion leaning on the railing of the observation deck, she steeled herself and went over there to say hi to him again.

She swallowed as she walked down the steps to the lower platform. Probably nothing would happen—he was married for all she knew ( _But he didn’t have a ring_ , her traitorous brain whispered). She would just go over, say hi, and tell him thank you for their lunch, and then, well, they’d see what would happen.

Dean was lounging against the railing, his back to the canyon, looking beautifully, artlessly careless while he did it. The other one was leaning on his elbows, his face just as serious as it had been in the restaurant; he was staring intently out at the canyon, but from his blank face Sandy couldn’t see that he was enjoying himself at all.

Just then Dean turned, and Sandy straightened, because if he looked up he would see her—

But he didn’t look up, instead leaning sideways on the rail, and seemed to notice something in the distance. His hand came up to rest on the small of the other man’s back, just above the top of his jeans, as he pointed out at what he’d seen, and his fingers brushed across his backside as he let his hand drop. And while his companion looked at what he’d pointed out, Dean only had eyes for the other guy. His whole face just seemed to light up, a small, loving smile on his lips, his big green eyes so soft and adoring as he watched the other man watch the canyon.

Oh.

Sandy sighed and turned around to head back up to where Gran and Pops were standing. _I guess it really is true, what they always say_ , she thought resignedly. _All the best ones are either married or gay._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we close on a little outside POV so we can see how far Dean has come. No, he’s not open about his relationship, and he’d be horrified to know that someone had figured it out…but on the other hand, he’s relaxed and no longer so on his guard that he unconsciously displays a little affection outside of the bedroom now and again.


	51. Soundtrack

In keeping with “Supernatural” style, we took inspiration from classic rock for our work, using song titles and lyrics for the titles of our fics as well as using the songs themselves as soundtracks for the stories they go with. We’ve included a list of songs used here as both an acknowledgement of the songs used and as the soundtrack for our series, if anyone would like to listen along. We included links to any of the songs we could find on YouTube for your convenience.

**The Writing on the Wall**

**1)** “[The Writing on the Wall](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jdAd-ddKGWU)” – Foghat  
 **2)** “[Shoot to Thrill](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4gDch1p4c_M)” – AC/DC  
 **3)** “[Show Me the Way](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fX1o6DiogDM)” – Styx  
 **4)** “[Communication Breakdown](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gOZCAjcYurE)” – Led Zeppelin  
 **5)** “[Vide Cor Meum](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aOe2ubqeHec)” – _Hannibal_ Soundtrack  
 **6)** “[Dazed and Confused](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ehwSEVbBZl4)” – Led Zeppelin  
 **7)** “[Nothing Ever Goes as Planned](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j_I7n8U3Odg)” – Styx  
 **8)** “[Kyrie](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oeLIgzAe5sI)” – Palestrina  
 **9)** “[Life Still Goes On](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sY_AJYrKh88)” – BTO

**Highway’s Killing Me**

“[Highway’s Killin’ Me](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o1fMH1rQJJA)” – Foghat

**Fever Dreams**

“[Fever Dreams](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ChTTmcraTZQ)” – Dio

**Just What I Needed**

“[Just What I Needed](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z5-rdr0qhWk)” – The Cars

**I Want to Know What Love Is**

“[I Want to Know What Love Is](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C00ffeNR5zw)” – Foreigner

**Give a Little Bit**

“[Give a Little Bit](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WFNTblYKPxM)” – Supertramp

**Easy On My Soul**

**1)** “[Burnin’ for You](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ipqqEFoJPL4)” – Blue Oyster Cult  
 **2)** “[Sorrow](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AdKNlGfkyhc)” – Pink Floyd  
 **3)** “[Easy On My Soul](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s38emqvSGGo)” – Bad Company

**Burning Sky**

**1)** “[Burning Sky](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n3CfvXnawOo)” – Bad Company  
 **2)** “[Something About You](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rzoG27EgYcg)” – Bad Company  
 **3)** “[Up Around the Bend](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=34P18at0Q7s)” – Credence Clearwater Revival

**Animal**

**1)** “[Animal](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=somG2lTarE8)” – Def Leppard  
 **2)** “[Early In the Morning](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A1ttho-oywA)” – Bad Company

**Ready for Love**

“[Ready for Love](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nbqjBpNT1sc)” – Bad Company

**Wheel in the Sky**

**1)** “[Wheel in the Sky](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q6oCg2JClA4)” – Journey  
 **2)** “[Walk Through Fire](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CurlonnhxA0)” – Bad Company

**Little Angel**

**1)** “[Bad Man](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PG6TJeVNFuc)” – Bad Company  
 **2)** “[I Can’t Take It](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SuO_h-Ekaig)” – Cheap Trick  
 **3)** “[Little Angel](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h_lTt7VEzaw)” – Bad Company  
 **4)** “[Everybody Knows](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sYDFOf9wfSY)” – Cheap Trick

**Holy Water**

**1)** “[Speak Now or Forever Hold Your Peace](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qMeA0Vzs9BA)” – Cheap Trick  
 **2)** “[Holy Water](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rh5NV-Lyzok)” – Bad Company  
 **3)** “[Loving You Out Loud](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ccF23lQckV4)” – Bad Company

**Heartbeat**

“[Heartbeat](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CbOlVmuPSLQ)” – Bad Company

**Machine Gun**

“[Machine Gun](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KUi0cqBBm9c)” – Warrant

**Bad Medicine**

**1)** “[Bad Medicine](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4coXVx8noBA)” – Bon Jovi  
 **2)** “[Rock Me Tonight](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fR0j7sModCI)” – Billy Squier

**Coming Back to Life**

**1)** “[Coming Back to Life](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uhV4me_k8Y8)” – Pink Floyd  
 **2)** “[Feel Like Makin’ Love](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SEuKkcX1uKA)” – Bad Company  
 **3)** “[Carry On My Wayward Son](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2X_2IdybTV0)” – Kansas (DUH ;) )

**Good Times, Bad Times**

“[Good Times, Bad Times](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YJLxuqJO8zo)” – Led Zeppelin

Once again, many thanks to everyone who read and reviewed our stories!


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